


What Once Was Lost

by Shad0w_V4rgr



Series: Borderlands Writings [3]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, OC driven, POV First Person, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shad0w_V4rgr/pseuds/Shad0w_V4rgr
Summary: It’s been five years since Rowley Pierce left Sanctuary and abandoned the Crimson Raiders.Presumed dead, he roved the wastes of Pandora; avoiding his guilt. All the while avoiding the ever-growing bandit cult; The Children of the Vault.Until now.As his life becomes intertwined with his captors; memories of past mistakes return to haunt him. As do regrets of what could have been.New relations begin to form; new choices must be made. Choices that may well decide the fate of those he once called friends.
Relationships: Tyreen Calypso/Original Male Character
Series: Borderlands Writings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729078
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. Memory: The First Desertion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About 10 years ago, an 18 year old me purchased Borderlands and fell in love with the game.  
> So much so that I created an Original Character and wrote many chapters about his adventures on Pandora.  
> Unfortunately I lost everything. 
> 
> I have decided to write a whole new story based around that very same character. This is his story, told from his point of view.  
> It is set two years before the events of Borderlands 3.  
> The characters and significant events portrayed in the first two games will generally stay the same. However, there will be some major changes to the _(rather disappointing)_ story-line of Borderlands 3.
> 
> This is also my first attempt at writing in first person...so it may suck.  
> Regardless, hope you enjoy! :)

“Have you completely lost your mind?!”

“I have to agree with Lilith on this one kid. To go back out there is suicide.”

“Roland, you’re talking like he has the option to leave.”

“He does have the option. It’s his choice. I can’t stop him if he wants to leave; but I’d advise against it.”

“You’d _advise_ against it? You’re the leader of the Crimson Raiders. HE is a Crimson Raider. The people of Sanctuary need us right now. Everyone barely made it here from New Haven in one piece. We need to stick together not go-"

“Not everyone.” I interrupted the Siren’s fiery speech.

I could feel Lilith’s stare intensify, even though I had my back to her. 

“What did you say?” She asked in a tone that suggested I had just insulted her.

I spun around slowly on my stool, away from the bar, to face Roland and Lilith.

“I said, not everyone made it to Sanctuary.”

What was supposed to be a relaxing drink at the bar, on my last night in Sanctuary, had turned into a one-sided argument. News had spread fast of my sudden decision to go back out to the wastelands. Into the fray. 

Roland and Lilith had a personal vendetta against me leaving Sanctuary. Though it was mostly Lilith who had been so vocal about their disapproval. Everyone at Sanctuary thought I was insane. Maybe I was. But to survive on Pandora, you had to be a little crazy. 

Not so long ago, Hyperion descended onto Pandora and swept over the planet like a sandstorm. This was shortly after Lilith, Moxxi and Roland had screwed Jack over on Elpis; Pandora’s moon. I didn’t blame them entirely for the situation we were in. I had no doubt that Jack was a bad person before he was betrayed; but everyone has their limits. A breaking point. Their betrayal is what tipped him over the edge. Now the whole of Pandora was paying for it. 

Good people were dying. Innocent people. If you can believe that such people exist on this planet.

Someone once told me ‘Bad things have happened to you, terrible things. But that is no reason to become a bad person.’ 

Those words of wisdom clearly never reached the ears of Handsome Jack. Hyperion were wiping out bandits and civilians alike. They had gained major control of Pandora in such a short amount of time. It was a reckoning. Jack had managed to locate and attack the town of New Haven. Armed with his Hyperion forces and Wilhelm; a cyborg death machine that had no concept of mercy.

I hadn’t been born on Pandora, but New Haven had been my home since I was a boy. I had many fond memories there. And New Haven’s administrator, Helena Pierce, was my…

We had gotten separated.

The attack on New Haven had taken everyone off guard. We were unprepared and outnumbered; even with the Crimson Raiders, three Vault Hunters and a Siren on our side. All of us who survived the onslaught retreated to Sanctuary. There were many who hadn’t made it here. 

Pierce was missing. 

I had to find her. 

I felt a hand touch my shoulder and so I cast my eyes to the side. It was Moxxi. I hadn’t noticed her move from behind the bar. She stood between me and the two Vault Hunters; as if to shield me from them. 

“Honey, I don’t think it’s a good idea either. You should stay here where its safe.” She said kindly as she squeezed my shoulder.

At that moment, a fair-haired, leather-vest-wearing man leaned one elbow on the bar beside me. 

“HA!” He yelled in my ear. His other hand stroked back his Viking-like mohawk. “This is Pandora. Nowhere is fucking safe. Especially not now with those Hyperion cunts everywhere.” 

Moxxi crossed her arms and scowled at the man.

“You’re not helping, Dray.” 

The biker-slash-Viking man was Dray. My best friend; and the closest thing I ever had to a brother. 

Unlike me, Dray was loud and outspoken. Arrogant and in many cases, ignorant too. Where I favoured silence and thought, he favoured violence and profanity. 

We were complete opposites in every way imaginable, but our brotherly bond was strong. When you grow up beside someone on a planet like Pandora, it becomes a joint survival effort. Near-death experiences happen daily; over time a bond of trust develops. It had to. Even between two people who, in any other situation, would be the most unlikely of friends. 

Roland stepped back into my view. 

“Sanctuary may not be completely safe, but it is a lot safer than going back out there. What we need to focus on is keeping it secure. Protecting the people here.”

Lilith nodded in agreement.

Dray rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the bar in an over exaggerated manner.

“Oh sure. Well you two can ‘rally the masses’ or whatever the fuck your plan is. I’m going with Rowley to look for Pierce.” He patted me on the back. 

“I’m going alone.” I replied quickly. 

“The hell you are. I’m coming with you.”

“Neither of you are going anywhere, we need you here.” Lilith retorted.

And we were back to square one. 

Their objections were falling on deaf ears. I had made up my mind. I was leaving Sanctuary. With or without their blessing. 

“Rowley look, I know Pierce means a lot to you…but you’re not like us…”

Lilith’s change in tone had caught my attention immediately. I knew where she was going with this and for some reason it irritated me. 

“You’re not-“

“Not a killer?” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t want to hear it. 

“We’re only concerned about your safety. We don’t want to lose anyone else.” Roland added.

“At least let me come with you bro. You need someone to watch your back out there.” Dray just had to say his part.

They had all changed tactics it seemed. From relentless disapproval to sympathetic reasoning. This method annoyed me more than being ranted at. I didn’t want their pity; I didn’t need it. 

“None of you have any faith in me, do you? I might not be a soldier, or a siren, or a merc...” I glanced at all three of them, giving them each their dubbings. “But I’ve survived on Pandora for longer than all three of you have. I’m not a kid anymore. And just because I don’t actively go looking for a fight doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to kill when its necessary.” 

No one seemed to have a response, except for giving each other glances. So, I continued; my typically reserved demeanor long gone as I raised my voice louder.

“Pierce is still out there. I’m leaving Sanctuary. Alone. Nothing you say will change my mind.”

Their shared silence told me I had won this unnecessary argument. Was it because I was right, and they were wrong? Or was it because I was acting completely out of character? Perhaps a bit of both. I’d surprised even myself. 

“So that’s it then. You’re deserting us?” Lilith asked, arms crossed. One final attempt at swaying me.

“I deserted Pierce. I need to find her.” 

  


\----

  


Dray stayed with me at the bar after Roland and Lilith had given up. Not much had been said between us, apart from requests for more drinks. That suited me fine. I never had been much of a talker. Right now especially; there was nothing left to talk about. But I knew the silence wouldn’t last the entire night. 

Dray slammed an empty bottle onto the bar next to me.

“I’m coming with you.” He grunted, breaking the block of ice that had frozen between us.

I shook my head in response.

“You’re fucking mad if you think I’m letting you go back out there alone.” He began. “Lilith and Roland are right with what they said. But I understand why you want to leave. So, YOU need to understand that you ain’t going alone. I’m coming with you, to watch your back.”

I kept my eyes down, bringing my glass to my lips to take a swig of whiskey. 

“You listening to me bro?” Dray raised his voice.

I could feel his eyes on me. Moxxi’s too from behind the bar. She cautiously approached, taking the empty bottle from Dray’s hand. Lightly running her fingers over his. I’m not sure whether her intention was to calm him down or turn him on. Knowing Moxxi, it was both. 

There would be no swaying him from a decision once he’d made up his mind. Dray had always been a stubborn bastard; but I was smart. Smart, and I knew him better than anyone else. 

“What about Erin?” I mumbled.

Dray flinched ever so slightly. He’d heard me. 

“Who’ll take care of her if you come with me?”

Erin was Dray’s younger sister. His world. And his kryptonite. She was the one person he cared about more in this life than me. He knew it and I knew it. I’d once witnessed him beat a man to a bloody pulp just for looking at her. There’s no way in hell he would leave her alone with the state the planet was in.

“The Crimson Raiders need you here Dray. Roland, Lilith…” 

My eyes met a gaze that I knew all too well. 

“Fuck the Crimson Raiders. Fuck Roland and Lilith. And fuck the people of Sanctuary. You know damn well I’d leave them all to die if it meant saving your ass.” As he paused, his angry expression dissipated. “But…”

He clenched his large fist tight enough to hear the bones of his fingers crack.

"I can’t leave Erin.” 

He looked torn. And defeated. I placed my hand firmly on his arm, for some sort of reassurance.

“And I can’t leave Pierce out there.” I said. 

After a prolonged stare, Dray nodded sulkily. He pulled away from my grasp and reached for a new bottle of ale. One that Moxxi had knowingly placed beside his hand. He chugged down a large portion of the bottle. Ale dripped from the corner of his mouth, down his thick beard. 

“The other Raiders’ll think you deserted us.” He sighed.

“Do you think that?”

“No. Fuck what they think.” Dray went silent; as if he were choosing his next words thoughtfully. “This is just something you gotta do. It’s your decision. As a man. I understand that.”

“If it makes you feel any better…part of me wants us to leave and find Pierce together.” 

He smiled at this.

“Tearing through the wastelands together, just like the old days. Fuck yeah.” His smile widened at the thought. “But what about the other part?” 

“The other part is telling me I have to do this alone.” I spoke with resolve. 

His smile dropped and he clenched his bottle tighter. He looked at me and gave a harsh but affirming nod.

“Then you go and find Pierce. Bring her back to Sanctuary. And keep your ass alive out there, little brother.”

Dray held up his beer bottle. I offered a weak smile as I brought my glass up to meet the bottle with a clink.

“I will. I promise.”


	2. A Wanderer

“Hey kid, you alright?”

A gravelly voice brings me back to my current reality. I’m stood inside a make-shift garage, leaning over the open hood of a bandit technical. A wrench in one hand, an oil-stained cloth in the other. There are car parts and pieces of scrap metal laid about all over the shop floor. As well as empty tin cans and bottles. It’s hot as hell in here and stinks; a combination of fuel, burnt rubber and rotting food. Perhaps flesh. The low-quality sound of a guitar is playing from a nearby stereo. I tap my boot to make a beat as I take a breath. 

There’s a man stood next to me. A bandit to be more precise. Approximately 6ft tall; average height. And when I say average height, I mean taller than me; I’m barely 5ft8. He’s wearing an eye patch that covers his right eye. With his one good eye he stares at me, non-threateningly.

“Is the state of the engine _that_ bad? Or is the midday heat getting to ya? You’ve been staring at that engine for a solid five minutes ignoring me.”

I balance the wrench on the edge of the vehicle and attempt to wipe oil from my finger-less gloves, using the cloth. 

“No, I’m fine. Just got lost in thought.”

Lost in memory more like.

The bandit scratches at his bald head.

“Yeah you do that a lot. Should watch it. You might not come back next time.”

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to come back. Perhaps then I could right some wrongs. Do a few things differently. If only I had the chance to change some of the choices I’ve made; I surely would. 

“It’s coz of that thing, I bet.” He points accusingly at my beanie hat. 

I raise my hands over my head protectively, tugging on both sides of the hat, pulling it further down over my ears. Leaving a few strands of my curly ginger hair sticking out.

“Don’t you get hot wearing that hat?” He pulls back his hand in confusion.

“Not really. It’s a comfort thing.”

“Right. So how long is this going to take?”

I shrug, scratch my chin scruff and look back down at the engine with a sigh. 

“It’s so messed up this time, I’m not even sure I can fix it.”

“Sure you can! You’re the smartest guy I know.” The bandit says confidently.

This isn’t nearly as flattering as it sounds. Bandits are famously stupid. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m a vehicle expert. I know what I know, and most of that is common sense.”

I lean back over the vehicle; the entire upper half of my torso is now inside the engine compartment. This technical is a beast of a machine but it has seen better days. The engine is clogged with sludge and carrion. The compartment itself is thick with sand, bloody pulp, small scrap metal pieces and decaying body parts. The stench is ungodly. Unfortunately, that’s something I’m used to.

“There are…body parts in here.” I say to myself, only half surprised, as I reach for what appears to be the forearm of a man. “What the hell were you guys doing?” I ask rhetorically, throwing the chunk of arm behind me.

The bandit chuckles as he watches me pull out more body parts from the bowels of his car. 

“Ah the boys got a little carried away on our last outing. We hit a COV camp.”

I don’t intend to respond. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me. Until the realisation of what he has just said, hits me. 

I push myself upright and look at him in disbelief. 

“You raided a COV camp?” 

“Ha yeah. Last week. Me and the boys tailed a few of their cultists back to their little stronghold hide-away. We hit em hard, real hard. They never saw it coming. Took all their food, ammo and weapons.” He brags.

“That’s…good?” 

“Don’t look so worried, kid. I know what you’re thinking. Relax. We didn’t leave any of em alive. No way they’ll find us.”

We both know that’s a lie.

Bandit clans have always been at war with each other; it should be considered part of Pandora’s culture. 

However, things were changing. Since the appearance of the Children of the Vault; bandits, waste-landers and psychos were all falling under the same banner. A cult. The Children of the Vault, or COV, were growing in number every day. Their current agenda seemed to be converting, capturing or killing any unaffiliated bandit clans. This particular clan has been lucky so far avoiding them; but it’s only a matter of time before their luck runs out.

On that day, I intend to be far away from here. 

The main reason this clan has lasted so long is because their leader is a smart one. Well, smart for a bandit. His name is Patch. Better spoken than most you’ll find out in the wastes; and with more brain cells too. I’ve never asked why but I assume they call him Patch on account of the eye patch he wears. Typical bandit name; not at all creative, but painfully obvious. I doubt it was his parents who gave him the name. Few people out here keep their birth names. Even I don’t know my _real_ birth name.

I lean back into the technical to continue the dissection. Patch leans his elbows on the side to get a better view of his blood-stained engine. 

“By the way, have you reconsidered my offer?” 

I don’t respond. 

He asks me this same question every single time I travel to his camp.

“Come on…you’d be a great addition to our clan!” He slaps his hands enthusiastically on the car.

“No.” I say bluntly.

“Aw hell, why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

I hear him tut.

“Being alone out in the wastes is a good way to get yourself killed, kid.” His voice is starting to sound threatening.

“I’ve survived just fine on my own so far. Plus, I like being alone.”

He pauses and leans further into the technical.

“You know, the only reason we haven’t killed your scrawny ass is coz you’re useful as hell.”

Now that sounded like a threat.

I push myself upright and out of the technical, again. He does the same.

I’m not, by any stretch of the imagination, an intimidating man. But I can hold my own. People always underestimate me, and that is my greatest advantage. I haven’t survived on Pandora my whole life by being weak. 

“I’m not joining your clan Patch. I’m not a bandit. I’m not a killer.” I say, my voice unwavering. 

“You don’t have to kill anyone! You can be the handyman!”

“Aren’t I already the handyman?” I reply with some humour; attempting to win the disagreement with wit, as opposed to violence.

“Ah shit…yeah…that’s true.” He shrugs off his hostility in defeat.

Patch has asked me to join his clan, the ‘One-Eyed Bandits’, so many times I’ve lost count. All of which I have kindly declined. He must appreciate me to some extent, as most bandits would shoot you the first time you decline.

There are no laws on Pandora. No rules. Only facts. And the fact remains that if you don’t join up with a clan or group of some sort, the wastelands will be your grave. Of course, for every fact, there is an exception. In this case I am the exception. I’ve lived in the wastelands for five years. 

No clan. No friends. No one to rely on when things get tough. 

Alone. 

Although, it hasn’t always been this way.

I’m a scavenger. A wanderer. I fix things. I hunt. I survive and live on my own terms. I used to do business with multiple bandit clans. The smarter, less violent clans won’t kill you if you can be useful to them and their survival. It goes without saying that I always avoided cannibalistic clans. To them the only thing I’d be useful for would be their next meal. 

I’d trade food, ammo and other supplies. Occasionally fix vehicles, weapons and more complicated pieces of tech (be it hardware or software) that the average psycho wouldn’t be able to repair. 

Now, many of the other clans have been wiped out by the COV. Patch’s clan is currently the only one I do business with. 

“Patch, no offence, but I’m not going to get your technical fixed up if you keep hounding me like this.”

“Alright alright, I’ll leave you to it. But you should stay for drinks this evening. Just this once. To celebrate.” He offers.

“Celebrate what?”

“You fixing my busted ass technical for one thing. And to celebrate our victory against the COV!” 

I hesitate.

“I don’t think so.” 

“Aw come on kid. Plenty of booze to go around, and the drinks are on the COV!”

I shouldn’t. It’s my main rule for survival. Don’t get involved with anyone more than I have to. Keep people at a distance. It makes life less complicated. Casual drinking is something friends do. But-

Shit.

The offer of free alcohol is awfully enticing. I’m running low on booze back at my shack…

I’m annoyed at how easily I’m being persuaded to socialize with a group of people I don’t care about. 

But on Pandora, a good drink is one of the few pleasures in life. More so if it’s free.

Screw it.

I’ll stay and have a few drinks. I can head back home tomorrow morning. What’s the worst that can happen?


	3. Heretics

Panicked screams, frantic gunfire and a large explosion is what wakes me from my alcohol induced slumber. My head is pounding. If not from the explosion, then surely from the amount I drank last night.

This doesn’t look like the floor of my shack…

Damn it. 

_Where the hell am I?_

I see my rifle a short distance from where I’m lay. Jakobs. Vintage. Has my name engraved on the stock. Unmistakable, even in the state I’m in.

I scramble across the floor. Pushing aside empty booze bottles to reach it. Just as my hand grasps the stock of my rifle, Patch barges through the door.

“They’re here!” He yells, slamming the door behind him.

I can only groan in response.

He doesn’t even acknowledge me lay suffering on the ground before he starts tearing open cabinet doors, grasping desperately at whatever is inside. 

“It’s the fucking COV! We need to get the fuck out of here!”

I force myself to stand, dragging my rifle upwards and using it as a support to lean on.

So much for me not being here when they find his clan.

“We’re not fighting?” I ask, rubbing my aching head with my free hand.

I don’t want to fight. The whole reason I avoid joining any clan is so that I can stay out of situations like these.

“My boys are fighting. Fighting and dying! There’s too damn many of them!”

Patch begins throwing everything he can get his hands on, into the back of the technical. He’s hysterical; chattering to himself. Sweat pouring from his bald head. I’ve never seen him like this before. He looks terrified. 

Should I be scared too? Should I help him?

I don’t. I stand and watch; dazed from the worst hangover I’ve had in a long time.

What am I _doing_ here? I shouldn’t be here. 

All I wanted was to indulge in a few drinks and now I’m paying for it. One tiny mistake and I’m going to be killed by ravenous cultists. Who knows, maybe they’ll sacrifice me to their Gods instead. 

Patch claps his hands in front of my face.

“WAKE UP KID!” 

This jolts me from my daze.

“Get in the car, we’re getting out of here!”

I nod quickly and stumble my way towards the back of the technical. There’re loud voices outside the door. Just before I attempt to jump in the back, the door is kicked open.

It’s over.

“GET ON YOUR GOD DAMN KNEES HERETICS!!” A crazed cultist screams, saliva spraying from his flapping gob. 

He’s trembling with excitement; armed with a shotgun that he points at Patch and myself. I comply immediately and fall to my knees. More from drowsiness than actual compliance. 

“Go fuck yourself.” Patch growls and aims his own gun at the cultist. 

The two stare each other down, both eager to pull the trigger. Two more cultists appear to back up the first. They enter the garage. Now Patch doesn’t know which one to aim at. His arms are shaking and in his panicked state, he nervously switches his aim between the three.

The cultists close in on him, one by one, laughing amongst themselves. 

“Fuck…you…fuck you all!”

The response he receives is two gun shots.

The sounds a man can make as a result of pain are unearthly. I close my eyes tightly for a second, as Patch cries out like a wounded animal. He falls to his knees and drops his gun, having been shot in both of his thighs. With Patch no longer a threat, the fanatic with the shotgun turns his attention to me.

“YOU!” He moves closer. The barrel of his gun dangerously close to my face. “DROP IT!” 

Only now do I realise that I’m still holding my rifle. I drop it at my side. I’m in no state to put up any sort of a fight. I look upwards to see if I have appeased the man, who is inches away from blowing my brains out the back of my head. However, my focus quickly skips from him and onto the individuals who are entering the door behind him. 

In my semi-inebriated state, I strain my blood-shot eyes. I can scarcely believe it.

_Its them._

The Calypso Twins. The self-proclaimed Twin Gods. The leaders of The Children of the Vault.

What the hell are _they_ doing here? 

Troy strolls in first, placing a hand on the doorway. He ducks to enter, due to his sheer height. He has a smug yet apathetic expression on his face. That mechanical arm might not just be for show; looks like it could do some serious damage. He’s actually quite intimidating up close. Although he is very skinny. 

Tyreen follows in closely after; her pace quicker than her brother’s. Her movements are erratic and over-exaggerated. A fiendish grin displays how she is oh-so-pleased with what has been accomplished here. There’s a dangerous aura about her; perhaps it’s because she’s a siren. I feel it. Patch feels it. The cultists clearly feel it too as they shrink into themselves. 

Troy seems to shrink beneath her as well; metaphorically speaking. She’s considerably shorter than her brother. The size difference is amusing. Or at least it would be if I wasn’t feeling like a wreck and seconds away from being murdered by psychos. 

“Pfft, are these the only two left??” Troy scoffs.

All three cultists nod rapidly in hilarious unison. 

“Really?! Huh. I was expecting, oh I don’t know, a bit more of a challenge. Especially from a bunch of guys who are brave enough to steal our stuff.” Tyreen mocks, looking directly at Patch. 

“You killed my boys…” He says bitterly, through gritted teeth.

Tyreen glances through the open doorway with feigned innocence.

“Who, them? Oh yeah. They’re all super-dead.” 

Patch clenches his fists. I can’t work out if it’s from anger or pain.

“You fucking siren bitch!” He snaps, lunging upwards.

Troy stops him mid-lunge by kicking him square in the jaw. Yet I’m the one who flinches.

“Oooo. That’s gotta hurt!” 

The twins share a fist bump as they stand over Patch; who’s lay on his side, breathing heavily.

“Now is that anyway to speak to your God-Queen?” Tyreen looks down on him, with not even the slightest hint of pity.

“Go to…hell…you’re a siren…WITCH…nothing more.” He grunts in between taking gasps of air.

Damn it Patch. I wish he’d shut his mouth. He’s only making them prolong his suffering. And by the looks of things, they are thoroughly enjoying it. 

Tyreen crouches down beside him. Lowering the volume of her voice to a whisper.

“If you guys hadn’t been so drunk and lazy, drinking all of _OUR_ booze and eating all of _OUR_ food, maybe you’d have put up more of a fight.” She stands back up, grins and gives a playful shrug. “Or maybe not!” 

As the scene plays out before me, I get the feeling they have forgotten that I’m here. Everyone seems occupied with Patch; unfortunately for him. 

I don’t want to die here. Nor do I have any interest in joining their cult, should they offer.

I have many options. Each one as suicidal as the next.

I could make a run for it. Push past the twins. Dodge through the cultists. It wouldn’t be too difficult as I have the element of surprise. I’m fast, and agile. I could be out the door in a flash. But if I trip because of the state I’m in, then I’ll die looking like an idiot.

I could try to fight my way out, but there’s not a scratch on either of them from what I can see. It’s likely they weren’t the ones doing the fighting out there. Which means they aren’t exhausted. Whereas I am. Five against one aren’t good odds. 

_My rifle is still close._

Maybe I could- 

“Hey, don’t get any funny ideas.” 

I’ve looked at it for a little too long. 

Troy kicks my rifle further away. He stares down at me, wearing that same cocky expression he walked in with. Waiting to see if I’ll retaliate in any way. He quickly gets bored when I don’t rise to the bait. 

He walks around me, towards the technical, and I hear him let out a long whistle.

“This is one sweet ride you got here!” 

“That’s mine!” Patch barks, receiving a kick to the stomach from one of the cultists.

“Not. Anymore.” 

Troy continues to stalk around the technical, ogling it like one would do to an erotic piece of artwork. My eyes are back up front when Tyreen moves forward. She stands in front of me and places her hands on her hips. 

“Huh, you don’t look like a bandit, or a psycho.”

“He’s no one.” Patch says in my defence, earning himself another kick to the gut.

“Uh wasn’t talking to you numb nuts. So shut it.” She snaps. Then softens her expression to address me again. “You can stand up.” She offers, signalling me to stand.

I just about manage to get to my feet without tumbling over. 

“Tyreen Calypso, God-Queen of the Children of the Vault; but I’m sure you already know that.” She introduces herself, sparing no flamboyance. “What’s your name?” 

She gets no response from me. My eyes return to focusing on the ground. My mind focusing on remaining calm and not letting my anxiety take over. It isn’t working.

“It’s rude to ignore someone when they ask you a question.” She says, her tone a little harsher.

If I don’t answer, I’ll likely get the same treatment as Patch. I take a breath and swallow the lump in my throat. 

“Rowley Pierce.” I reply, as firmly as I can currently manage.

“It speaks!” Troy jabs and points at me from the driver’s seat of the technical. 

“Okay, well, _definitely_ not a psycho with a name like that.” Tyreen chuckles. “So, you’re not a member of this clan? What are you doing here?” She asks, half curious, half suspicious. 

Silence.

“Why are you wasting your time on this guy? He’s a nobody. Just kill him and let’s get out of here.” Troy answers for me. 

Tyreen ignores her brother. She taps her foot, awaiting my answer. 

“I’m a wanderer. A scavenger. I live in the wastelands.” I say honestly. 

“ _He lives in the wastelands._ Hahaha, see Ty? He _is_ a nobody.” 

“Wait wait wait. So you live out there? In the desert? Alone?!” Tyreen asks, the pitch of her voice getting higher with each question. 

I nod.

“I came here to repair the technical and to trade.” 

“You? You fixed up this thing?” Troy almost sounds impressed.

“Yeah. I did.” 

“So, what, you’re a mechanic?”

“No. I’m just good with tech.” 

The twins share a look with each other; as two people who share the same idea do. Tyreen turns back to me; her eyes scrutinizing as she looks me up and down. 

“You know Rowley, you’re actually quite cute. A bit scruffy, but cute.” 

Troy snorts at his sister’s remark. 

“It must be tough living out there all by yourself. You must get lonely. Wanna join our family?” Her tone is sickeningly sweet as she clasps her hands together.

I shake my head. I feel like death would be preferable. 

“Aww why not? We could certainly use someone smart like you. We’ve got food and a safe place for you to stay. We’d take good care of you. We’re a family after all.” 

Her words sound hollow. False flattery, comforting lies, empty promises. Enough to make desperate men obey. And make wise men sick. I’m definitely the latter. 

“I can look after myself. Don’t like the idea of joining a cult.” 

Tyreen laughs. 

“It’s a real shame you don’t have a choice.”

  


\----

  


Patch hasn’t made eye contact or spoken a single word since we were forced into the back of his technical. It’s possible he’s angry at me for not doing more. But what more could I have done? 

One wrong move and I’d be as dead as his clan-mates are now. Their bodies already beginning to rot under the scorching sun of this unforgiving planet. 

The vehicles are all parked beside one another, on the desert sand, just outside the site of the recent massacre. 

The twins climb into another technical by the side of ours. 

“Lets go, bitches!” 

At Tyreen’s words, the engines of each vehicle roar to life. Cultists laugh maniacally. Some fire their weapons wildly in the air, revelling in their madness and victory. 

I look up from my shackled wrists and stare out towards the endless sands. I’m starting to wonder if I should have fought back there. To die that way; at least it would have been on my own terms. Fighting and dying for my freedom. 

Now I fear there is a fate worse than death awaiting me.


	4. Observations

The drive to nowhere has been long and exhausting. I’ve had to put all of my effort into not falling asleep. In my current company that would be a very bad idea indeed. For hours, nothing but desert has passed by. The sound of roaring engines. Tyres tearing through sand. A warm wind against my skin. 

It has brought back a curiously tender memory of my late teenage years. The hour-less days spent driving across the dunes; with no real destination. Music blaring through the car speakers. The company of a friend.

I spend so much time wandering the sands alone, I question, after all these years; why is it now that this memory returns to me?

The sight of a large, fortress-like structure ahead, breaks my momentary contentment. We are driving directly towards it. My heart sinks into my stomach as I imagine the horrors that may be awaiting me behind those metal walls.

The technicals stop outside the enormous gate, which is hooked up to a large chain system. One of the vehicles in front honks its horn. Yells are exchanged between those inside the compound and those outside. 

The cultists who have been riding in the back with me and Patch, stand up and surround us. I quickly find out that the chains around our wrists have yet to serve another purpose. Me and Patch are shoved out of the technical and face first into the hot sand. It’s in my eyes, my ears, my nose, my mouth. Sand really does get everywhere. I cough and shake myself off as best I can with my bound wrists. 

The enormous metal door to the stronghold creaks as it is lifted open by the chains. From inside, the terrifying sound of hundreds of rabid animals boom outwards; sending shivers down my spine. The technical starts to move forward at a slow and steady pace, pulling us along via the chains attached to our shackles. 

We are going being paraded through the stronghold like prized cattle. 

Fanatics; cultists. The Children of the Vault. Hundreds of them have gathered. Screaming, chanting, praising, crying out for their Gods to notice them. 

Wherever these vehicles are leading us, I don’t expect to make it to the destination in one piece. A selection of deadly items are thrown from the crowd as we unwillingly follow the vehicles. I manage to dodge almost all of them. 

This place is not the stronghold that Patch’s clan attacked. This is, without a doubt, the main COV stronghold. I dread to think why we have been brought here and not simply killed. 

Patch does not even try to dodge the multitude of objects being thrown at us. With his leg wounds he’s struggling to keep up, as the vehicle tugs us along the path. 

While he is suffering physical pain; I am suffering mentally. 

There are so many people here. 

_So._

_Damn._

_Many._

It is as if I have entered a nightmare entirely of my own design. My anxiety is at an all new height of terror. My heart is racing, and my breath is uneven. Had I the strength to break free of these chains I would do so, and run back into the unforgiving wastelands. Even if I was barefoot on the hot sand, defenceless; with hungry skags trying to devour me.

I can just about hear the sound of Tyreen’s voice over all the screaming. Whatever she is saying, it’s riling up the crowd even more. There’re becoming increasingly violent. As I am becoming increasingly afraid.

The crowd around me is becoming a blur. I no longer attempt to dodge any thrown objects. Instead I focus on watching my feet move forward, hoping that this walk of shame will soon be over. 

  


\----

  


Our destination turns out to be a well-fortified building, located in the center of the stronghold. We are unclipped from the vehicle, taken into the building and led down a long hallway. Although I am relieved to be away from the crowds, I am almost certain we are being led to our deaths. 

I should be so lucky.

Our chains are removed and we are pushed through one of many open doorways. The sturdy metal door is slammed and locked tightly behind us. No parting words are said.

I quickly assess my surroundings. 

It’s a small room with dirty gray walls and a tiny window. There are two single beds, a toilet, a small sink and a television screen which sits above the doorframe. Somehow, I doubt we’ll get a choice of channels to watch. 

This looks like a prison cell. 

_This IS a prison cell._

At least we don’t have to bunk with any cultists. A small mercy. I’m surprised we’re being given a room at all, never mind a bed to sleep in. I wonder if they have left us in here to die of starvation. The locks on the door sounded permanent. 

The long and eventful day has taken its toll on the both of us. I feel utterly exhausted; and dehydrated. Not only from being under the sun for so long, but also from the remnants of my hangover. Regardless of this, I am unwilling to sit down and rest just yet. 

Patch wastes no time in planting himself on the bed to the right; claiming it as his. He seems relieved to be sat down and I can’t blame him. The wounds he’s received, and the toil of the day have completely worn him down. Both physically and in spirit.

“You didn’t put up much of a fight back there.” 

I see no reason for him to be disappointed with me. I owe no loyalty to him or his clan. We may be in this situation together, but we are nothing more than acquaintances. 

I move towards the window, inspecting it. Far too small for me to fit through.

“They would have beaten and killed me if I’d have fought back.” I reply, staring out of the window at the dissipating crowd. 

“Suppose it doesn’t matter now. My clan are all dead and we’ve ended up as prisoners. Who knows what plans that siren bitch and her brother have got for us.” He sighs.

“We should be fine; so long as we do what they ask.” 

“ _Do what they ask?_ Well aren’t you an obedient little mutt.” 

“It’s not about obedience. It’s about survival. They’ll let their guard down eventually. I’ll bide my time until I can find a way to escape.” I sound more confident than I feel. 

“Well good luck with that kid. I don’t think we’ll be alive long enough to find an escape. I definitely won’t be.” He takes a moment to adjust himself, groaning as he drags his wounded legs onto the bed. “I’m the leader of an enemy clan. A clan that attacked them. They’re going to make an example out of me.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You think all that parading us around was just for show? There’re planning something. That was just the warm-up. And if the Twins don’t kill us, their cultists will surely try. We’re heretics, remember?” 

As if on cue, the screen in our room lights up and catches both of us by surprise. 

The COV symbol flashes several times before switching to the Twins, live on camera. Tyreen holds the spotlight, while Troy hovers in the background like a piece of furniture. The former begins by addressing the audience as her ‘brothers and sisters’. She goes on to announce their victory over the heretic clan, the One-Eyed bandits, who stole from them and killed members of the family. 

She goes as far as to tell her viewers the name of the bandit clan’s leader, Patch. Who, from his bed, grimaces at the mention of his name.

Footage from the battle at the camp is shown. Except it wasn’t a battle at all. It was a short-lived massacre. The men are being slaughtered; they didn’t stand a chance. Patch tenses up, understandably distressed at seeing his men murdered for the second time today. 

I’m curious to why there is no mention of my name. For this I’m thankful but starting to believe there is some truth to what Patch was saying. They’ve got something planned for him. They’re going to make an example out of him. To show people what happens to heretics who cross the Children of the Vault. 

What then, I wonder, will happen to me?

“ _Like, follow and obey._ ” Patch mimics as the broadcast ends. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are we going to have to listen to this shit the whole time we’re locked in here?” 

I don’t know an awful lot about the Twins. Only what I’ve seen of them on the ECHOnet. You don’t necessarily need to know someone, to know _about_ them. A lot can be learned through observation. 

ECHOnet stars. Cult leaders. Gods. It doesn’t matter what titles they take for themselves. From what I’ve witnessed I have already formed my own opinion of them, which I believe to also be facts. They are heartless and sadistic killers. Scum; no better than the psychos and bandits who populate Pandora. Easily comparable to immature and arrogant children. Most importantly, they are wickedly smart and dangerous. A siren alone is a formidable foe. A siren leading a cult…?

“She likes the sound of her own voice, don’t she?” Patch shakes his head in disgust. “It’s all bullshit.” 

He hasn’t finished yet. He takes in a breath; preparing to give a speech of his own. 

“All she does is prance around talking a load of shite. Bats her eyelashes, sways her hips and she’s got those morons drooling and fawning over her. They actually believe she cares about them. It’s pathetic. And her brother? He’s just a tool. Thinks he’s some hot shit just because he has a siren sister.” 

Although he says it with bitterness, it isn’t a lie or an exaggeration. It’s as much a solid observation as my own. 

“It’s obvious they aren’t real Gods. I don’t see the appeal.” I shrug. 

“That’s because you ain’t stupid or desperate like the rest of these idiots.”

“Is she really a siren?” I ask. Even though I specifically remember her siren markings. 

“Yeah. A powerful one. She can drain the life from someone just by touching them...”

Sounds far-fetched to me. There’s a tremor in his voice that tells me otherwise. 

“That doesn’t sound like any siren power I’ve ever heard of.” My tone is light-hearted. I still manage to earn a frown. 

“Oh yeah? Well I’ve seen it, with my own eye. And how many fucking sirens have you met, smart ass?”

I open my mouth to respond; surprised when nothing comes out. I feel a lump in my throat.

_Something’s wrong._

Something, somewhere in me, aches. 

_Two sirens. I’ve met two of them. They were my friends._

It’s what I want to say. It’s what I should say.

“Two.” I barely manage a whisper. 

Patch studies my face. Right now he can probably tell me more about how I’m feeling than I can tell myself.

“You’re being serious, aren’t you?” 

I nod. Silence becomes the replacement for answers I can’t face. 

“Two sirens…damn.” He leans back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. “I’ll bet there’s one hell of a story to be told there. It’s a shame no one will ever get to hear it.”

“It is a shame.” I agree solemnly, ending the conversation.

I lay down on the other bed and turn over to face the wall.

This is how it always goes. 

I can never bring myself to open up.

And I’m afraid to remember.


	5. Glitch

It’s been a little over a week since I was captured and brought back to the COV stronghold. I’m surprised to say that I am alive and still in possession of all my limbs. So far only two cultists have broken into our cell and tried to kill us in our sleep. I expect there will be more.

Both myself and Patch have been put to work daily. Mundane jobs for the average bandit stronghold. Sorting through the spoils of war. Repairing and maintaining vehicles, weapons and the like. A whole lot of walking, lifting and carrying. The cultists like to push us extra hard; because we are _heretics_. They make us do the jobs they don’t want to. It’s tough, but I’m no stranger to hard work and physical labour.

Survival on Pandora has never been easy. It’s a constant struggle to find supplies. When you band together with people, survival becomes a joint effort. You’d think with more people helping; surviving would be easier. This couldn’t be further from the truth. The more people there are, the more supplies you need, the harder you have to work. 

Its far simpler on your own; with only yourself to take care of. 

Take right now, for instance. I would rather not have Patch constantly at my side, but I have little choice. As much as I hate to admit it, we have a better chance at staying alive if we stick together. These cultists look for any excuse to start a fight; sometimes they need no excuse at all. 

Currently it’s after midday. Me and Patch are outside the stronghold’s main warehouse, on a short break. We’re taking shade and resting by a water pipe. Patch is stood under the water flow with not a care in the world. We don’t have the privilege of a shower in the cell, so cooling off under clean, flowing water during the midday heat is blissful. 

I’m sat a short distance away. My back against a container, knees up and arms resting on top of them. It looks like I’m simply relaxing; and I am. Though there is more to it than that. 

I’ve been observing the cultists routine since day one. Especially the routines of the stronghold’s guards. There are more guards around during the night than during daylight. Raids and outings happen daily. Not all of them are successful. Small celebrations are held for the particularly victorious raids. Though nothing compared to the parade from the day I was brought here. Curiously I have not seen Tyreen or Troy in person since that day. I am, however, certain that they live somewhere within this compound. 

I’m still annoyed at myself for getting into this situation. I am going to escape this place. I just need to be patient and wait for- 

“Hey kid, check it out!”

Patch is laughing hysterically as he approaches me, pointing to one of many screens that are dotted around the compound. After all, the Twin Gods must stay regular with their brainwashing content. 

I look at the screen; puzzled and amused. There is no propaganda playing, nor the latest ‘Let’s Flay’ that seems to be popular amongst the followers. Instead there is a flickering COV symbol and occasional video clips that lag and cut off. The audio is cutting in and out, making it unintelligible, like a foreign language. 

It is very funny. I want to laugh out loud but hold back. 

Patch sure isn’t holding back; he’s in stitches.

“Is that supposed to happen?” I ask sarcastically. 

“I doubt it. Looks like our ‘Twin Gods’ are having technical difficulties.” He stands next to me; his eye on the screen, chuckling. “I’m actually enjoying watching the screens when they’re like this. Guess the Calypsos will have to find other ways to spread their propaganda bullshit.”

All the screens throughout the compound have been glitching out since the early hours of the morning. A glitch in the system perhaps, or maybe it’s a hardware issue. The cultists are noticeably bothered by it. Me and Patch, not so much. 

“They play this shit all day, every day. That and the damn loudspeakers, blaring out announcements every hour. I can’t even get a good night’s sleep because they leave re-runs playing. It’s driving me insane.”

“I think that’s the whole idea.” I reply, dead pan. 

My attention is taken from the glitching screen, to a small group of cultists who’re walking by. They come to an abrupt halt, panicking at the sight of the malfunctioning propaganda. The cultists here are creatures of habit. They don’t like sudden change. Heaven forbid they go a day without praising the Calypso’s at least a dozen times. 

Our presence here has certainly thrown them off. I suppose the presence of non-believers in a cult disturbs the natural order of things. During the working day, we’ll get the occasional death threat. Menacing stares and insults are a regular occurrence. We’ve been pushed around and forced to work our fingers to the bone. Regardless, I’ve kept my head down like a good little prisoner and done what’s been asked of me. Patch has too, with much disdain. 

I might be going too far by saying that hard work pays off. I’d never expect a cult of psychos to appreciate that. 

“We should head back into the warehouse.” Patch sneers. “Don’t want to push our luck by upsetting the fanatics.”

I nod in agreement and get to my feet.

A woman barges her way through the group of cultists; causing a commotion. They respond with instant aggression, which swiftly changes to cowering and grovelling in the dust. Making a lot of unnecessary noise. I don’t blame them. That woman is armed to the teeth. Guns, grenades, axes, knives, you name it.

I recognise her. Boney Ann. Flattering name. She’s one of the cultists who’s been giving us orders. A real slave driver. She’s one of the higher-ups; keeps the others in check. A tall, undernourished woman with pasty skin and a trademark psycho mask covering her face. Never seen her without the mask; not sure I want to. Aside from that, with her bright pink ponytails and knee-high stockings, she isn’t easily forgotten.

“Aw hell, here we go…” Patch mumbles.

Ann strides towards us, swinging her arms back and forth like she’s part of a military march. 

“You two!” The distance she stops is barely acknowledging our personal space. “Heretics! The Twin Gods need your assistance!”

“What do they want?” Patch drones. 

I keep quiet. 

Ann points at the screen. Patch looks up, only just managing to contain his laughter. 

“Fix.” 

Bluntly put.

Patch shrugs.

“Don’t know what you want me to do about it. I’m no tech expert.”

“Neither am I.” I add. 

“Well that’s a lie...” Patch gives me a knowing look. 

Ann picks up on it. 

I don’t like where this is going. 

“You!” She points a bony finger at me. “Tech expert.”

“No, I’m...I’m not a tech expert.” I say meekly.

“Yes. You follow me, to the Twin Gods.”

I can feel my heart sinking. I’ll happily get back to menial labour if it means avoiding the awkward situation that is rapidly developing.

“Go on kid. You’re smart as hell. You can fix their problem. Go help our ‘Twin Gods’.” Patch elbows me, grinning at my obvious discomfort. 

Why the hell is he suddenly so eager to help them? And why am I the one who has to do it?

“I thought you said you liked watching the screens like this.” I remind him of his previous statement.

“Aw hell. I do. But…” He leans close to my ear; as not to let Ann hear his words. “Just play nice. Help them. Gain their trust. It’ll be easier for you to get out of here if you do.”

My _actual_ plan was to lay low, not draw any attention and sneak out when the opportunity revealed itself. 

I wonder why Patch said, ‘easier for _you_ to get out’ rather than ‘ _us_ ’. 

He takes my silence as agreement and pushes me towards Ann.

This may be a good plan to carry out, for somebody with charm; but me?

Gaining the Calypso’s trust, personally…?

It would be a dangerous game to play. I’m not a people person. I’m not _good_ at getting people to like me. 

I rarely display emotion. I don’t speak much and I keep to myself. People tend to think I’m aloof and insensitive. There is some truth to the assumptions...

Boney Ann grabs my arm and yanks me forward.

“Follow!” She demands, marching off in the direction she came. 

I look back at Patch, who gives me a confirming nod.

It seems I have no choice but to go with it. Into the lion’s den and hope that my indifference doesn’t get me killed. 

  


\----

  


Boney Ann pushes against the handles of a lofty set of double doors. They open out into a large, spacious room with a towering ceiling, dimly lit by chandeliers. Not unlike a church. On closer inspection, it’s an elaborate throne room. Decorated with various COV signs, banners, graffiti and stain-glass windows depicting the Calypso’s likeness. There is a grandness to it. Not to be admired, but to be feared.

I read some of the signs as a distraction from my growing concern; while following Ann further into the room.

_‘Give your flesh. Take your guns!’_

_'Behold the God-Queen! Honor the Father!'_

_‘Find Purpose!’_

Not bloody likely in this madhouse. 

A blood red carpet leads me to my destination. A crimson, high-backed chair. A makeshift throne fit for a bandit Queen. The chair is elevated by three steps, enabling the Calypso’s to look down on their followers, and to pass judgement. The God-Queen herself is lounging on said chair, her brother leaning on the arm. There is a COV symbol painted on the chair’s back. It hovers above Tyreen’s head like some sort of halo. Ironic. 

“Hey look who it is! It’s the nobody!” Troy shouts in singsong when he notices me and Ann approaching. His annoying voice is amplified by the emptiness of the room.

As we get closer, I see strange statues placed curiously around the throne, each one facing towards the Twins. The material is unnatural, not like any type of stone sculptures I’ve ever seen. It looks somewhat like Eridium. Terrifyingly life-like, especially the positions in which they have been crafted. Pain and fear have been engraved onto their horribly contorted faces. 

Dread creeps into me as I get a closer look at them. 

I’m not so sure they are statues. 

Boney Ann halts at the foot of the three steps. I stop behind her. 

“My God-Queen! Father Troy! I have brought you the heretic!” She drags me forward, presenting me like an offering to her Gods. 

“Heya! Good to see you again Rowley! So, whaddya think of my husks? Impressive riiiight? They’re my own design.” Tyreen boasts from atop her throne. “It’s sorta my thing. Leeching the power and life-force of anything that’s…well…alive! Aha!” 

So, Patch was telling the truth. He must have seen Tyreen use her powers back at his camp.

Which means…

Those husks were people. People who likely begged for the life they have been drained of.

“What’s wrong? Not going to answer me?” 

“Gah. He never talks.” Ann spits. She kicks the back of my legs, pushing me down onto my knees. “But…works hard.”

She isn’t wrong. I’ll take that as a compliment.

“Aww, quiet AND obedient. I like that.” Tyreen leans forward and rests her face in her palms.

“I don’t like the way he looks at us.” Troy points out. “He thinks he’s better than us.” 

His accusation falls on deaf ears.

“Well, anyway, we’ve got a little job for you to do. And since, apparently, you’re good with tech; it should be easy work for ya!” Tyreen looks at her brother to continue.

“With all the successful raids and donations to the cause pouring in, we decided to upgrade to a brand-new antenna. Because, ha, we can. But the idiots who installed it have screwed it up somehow. Now our broadcasts aren’t working properly. All my hard work editing our footage, for nothing!” Troy explains.

“If you know what the problem is, why do you need me to fix it?” I ask, out of genuine curiosity.

“Five members of our family have tried to repair it. Three of them got electrocuted aaaand the other two fell to their deaths.” Tyreen gives a shrug. “Our followers are loyal, but they aren’t the brightest.”

“So…? Why don’t you fix it yourself?” I say instinctually. 

Now it sounds like I’m patronizing. Not my intention. 

Ann slaps me across the back of my head while the Twins stare at me; equally as unimpressed. I’m treading on thin ice. 

“Told you he thinks he’s better than us!” Troy takes a threatening step forward. 

“Well he isn’t, is he? How can he be better than a God?” Tyreen rises elegantly from her throne. “Just think of it as earning your keep. Everyone is expected to pull their weight in this family.” 

_Family._

A word I’d left behind and long forgotten the meaning. 

To think that the Calypso’s use a word like _family_ to bring together the scum of this planet. Like it’s some sort of justification for the atrocities they are committing. 

It’s all an act. A lie. The Calypsos kill their own followers, regardless of how much devotion to this so-called family they display. All the husks in this room were likely loyal cultists, killed by their false Gods.

It was deception. Betrayal. Murder. I may have forgotten the meaning of family, but I’m damn sure it doesn’t translate to any of those words.

“I’m not part of your family.” I mutter, just loud enough to be heard. 

I fully anticipate some form of retaliation. Troy does too by the way he looks expectantly at his sister.

Tyreen doesn’t retaliate. Instead she cracks a smile and laughs it off. Troy is visually disappointed. 

“Oooo wow look at you, being all defiant. And here I thought you were shy.” She grins at her brother. “Did you hear that Troy? He’s not part of our family.”

“He’s a _wanderer_ Ty. Like I keep saying, he’s a nobody. He doesn’t have any family.” Troy joins in taunting me.

I shouldn’t let their childish taunts rile me, but I feel unexpectedly stirred up.

Tyreen quells her amusement and makes her way down the three steps; slowly, precisely. 

“Let me put this another way. If you don’t do what I say, when I say, then you’ll end up like these guys.” She points to the husks. “It’s that simple. You don’t call the shots around here, I do.”

“Uh Ty, you mean, we do.” Troy affixes his sisters’ statement.

“Right, yeah, whatever.” She brushes him off. 

It’s a small display of who really calls the shots here. 

“You’re a smart guy Rowley. Do the smart thing. It’d be an awful waste to kill you off when you can be useful to us.” Tyreen crouches down, putting us at equal eye level. “If you follow and obey your God’s, like all our other loyal followers, you won’t be treated as a prisoner anymore. You’ll be treated as family. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Her gentle tone and the smile she offers me does the opposite of what she intends it to do. She moves her hand towards my face. 

“Family don’t kill each other.” I jerk my face away to avoid her touch; gesturing at the husks. 

The loyal members of this so-called family. Rewarded for their obedience with an agonizing death. 

Tyreen stands up slowly, her eyes not leaving mine. That shit-eating grin of hers is long gone. She looks shocked, that is until her expression sours into a scowl. Complete with clenched jaw, thinned lips and narrowed eyes. 

I’m not sure how, but it appears I’ve struck a nerve. 

“Get him out of here. Take him to the antenna. Give him the tools he needs. Blah blah blah...” She trails off, her voice lacking the usual enthusiasm. 

“Yes, my God-Queen!” Boney Ann drags me up onto my feet, slapping me over the back of my head for a second time.

“Hope you’re not afraid of heights, bitch!” Troy yells after me. 

I glance back to see Troy seemingly attempting to console his sister. She pushes him away and storms off. I hastily follow Ann, eager to put as much distance between myself and the Calypso’s as possible. 

Curious. Tyreen doesn’t seem the type who’d get offended so easily. Not with that ego of hers.

The husks I pass by remind me how grateful I should be to still have my life. 

I can say with certainty that those who offend the God-Queen do not live to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who has read and given this story a chance.  
> It feels as though Original Character driven fan fictions are in the minority and not exactly what people want to read...  
> With that in mind, I'm grateful to have any readers at all! :)


	6. Let's Flay

The roaring of the crowd is so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts. While the heavy bass from the speakers has replaced the rhythm of my own heartbeat. I’m stood amongst a ravenous crowd of fanatics, looking down into the pit of an arena. There are cultists aimlessly shooting at one another and a multitude of explosions; causing debris and body parts to fly all over the place. It’s absolute chaos; all in the name of the Calypso’s. 

The appropriately dubbed Mouthpiece is bellowing over the loudspeakers. Praising the Twin Gods and giving a completely unnecessary commentary. We can all see perfectly well that a legless psycho is lay on his back, squirming like a new-born. While being beaten to death by another psycho, using the first’s missing legs.

Apparently, this is the warmup for the main event. I dread to think what that may be. 

I don’t know if focusing on this violence is helping to calm my anxiety or making it worse. 

This bandit-styled wasteland arena was built from scratch by the COV. Dedicated to the Twin God’s and their reputation for delivering carnage. Every cultist from the stronghold came here of their own free will; eager to witness this bloodbath. I was forced here. Dragged from my cell this morning by Boney Ann who demanded, at the Twin God’s behest, that I attend this _Holy Event_. 

I’m quite high up in the crowd and can see the entire arena from where I’m stood. It feels as if I have the best seats in the house. Even if Ann is quite literally breathing down the back of my neck. This, and the sheer number of people around me, is not doing my anxiety any favours.

I reach up and tug both sides of my hat, pulling it further down over my ears. Force of habit, whenever I’m feeling anxious.

Regardless, I’m thankful for the small mercy of being in the crowd and not down in the pit fighting for my life.

Admittedly, I have fought in an arena before. Moxxi’s Underdome, many years ago. Twenty rounds of absolute chaos. I might never know what possessed me to join Dray in that endeavour. A spur of the moment, drunken decision?

The COV’s arena is huge. Almost as big as Moxxi’s. _Almost_.

These arena events aren’t a regular occurrence. There must be some special occasion to have called for such a gathering.

What is regular, however, is the infamous Let’s Flay; and the Slay of the Day.

LiveScreams; broadcasts and videos streamed on the ECHOnet for the viewing pleasure of the Calypso’s bloodthirsty fans. Right now, there are surveyors circling the arena; working to capture every angle of the ensuing madness in order to rake in the views. 

Not all the Let’s Flays are held in this arena. They can be anything from fanatic’s committing suicide in unique ways, to full on battles with heretic clans. Anything that’s bloody and loaded with pointless violence. The Calypso’s are constantly trying to create better content in order to get more views and followers. The bloodier the better. 

That being said, two cultists on either side of me are completely engulfed by the slaughter. It wouldn’t surprise me if they decide to leap over the railings and fall to their deaths.

_For the glory of the Calypso’s!_

Said Twins are on a raised platform to my right. High and mighty on their very own podium, observing the spectacle. The emperors of their colosseum.

My captors are blissfully unaware, or too arrogant to care, how easy a target they make.

A single shot to their heads is all it would take. 

If only I had my rifle…

Attempting such a stunt would see me promptly stabbed in the back by Ann. Then swiftly trampled to death by a horde of angry psychos. 

It would be worth it. 

They’re in their element up there. Basking in the praise and admiration of their followers. Especially Tyreen. She is, as usual, stood a fraction ahead of Troy. Her gaze skimming over the crowd while she flaunts herself, waves and blows the occasional kiss to _lucky_ cultists. 

I cannot understand the appeal of being in her position. How could anyone enjoy receiving so much attention? I feel embarrassed just watching her. The very thought of having so many eyes on me makes my stomach turn. 

Now she’s stopped waving. 

Smile’s gone. No expression.

She’s staring.

 _Shit._

She’s staring in my direction.

I look away for a few seconds, then look back.

She’s still staring. 

_Keep calm…_

I doubt she’s looking at me at all. Just into distance. Yeah, that’s it. Caught in thought.

Or maybe she’s still pissed off with me after what happened the other day.

Troy’s said something to her. 

She turns around to reply to him. 

Glances in my direction once more. 

And she’s back to normal. Waving to her fans, with that wide smile and those frighteningly striking eyes. 

That was strange. Now I feel paranoid. 

Mouthpiece announces the end of the round. There’s no ‘champion’ because everyone in the pit is either dead or bleeding out. Can’t say I’m surprised. 

“OUR BROTHER HAS CHOSEN TO SACRIFICE HIS OWN LIFE, AFTER SACRIFICING THE LIVES OF SO MANY OTHERS. ALL FOR THE GLORY OF THE TWIN GODS!” 

So, the last man standing committed suicide…

These cultists sure take their dedication to a whole new level of extreme.

Giant holograms of Tyreen and Troy materialize in the centre of the pit, followed by a dazzling set of fireworks. Allowing everyone in the crowd to behold the grandeur of their Gods.

And I thought they couldn’t get any more conceited. With an entrance like that, it must be time for the main event. 

“What a wonderful display of loyalty to your God-Queen and to our family. For his dedication and sacrifice we will see him again when we open the Great Vault!” Tyreen delivers her speech to the crowd. 

The cultists surge forward, and I grab hold of the metal railing in front of me for support. If this keeps up someone is bound to end up flying over the edge and it’s not going to be me.

“Now my brothers and sisters, we’ve got something real special for you here today. Your most recent and single most popular request for murder!”

Around the edges of the pit are several metal doors, from which the contenders enter the arena. The largest of the doors creaks as it slowly lifts open. The mist that emerges is foreboding. 

My eyes are locked on the opening door. I feel incredibly tense. 

“The infamous leader of The One-Eyed bandits!”

My heart jumps at her words. 

_Oh no…_

My fingers, slick with sweat, tighten around the railing.

“The heretics who stole from our family and KILLED our brothers and sisters!” Tyreen’s hologram strides across the arena, stopping only to point at the contender’s doorway. “This heretic will receive his divine judgement and punishment at your hands. The one who strikes him down in MY name will have earned their place by my side at the opening of the Great Vault!”

Though the crowd is getting more aggressive, I’m feeling less and less concerned about them. Instead I’m sweating bullets, waiting in fearful anticipation for the mist to evaporate. 

I know who is going to emerge from the open doorway, but for once I hope that my gut is wrong.

The mist is gone.

The contender walks out.

_Damn it…_

I’m not wrong.

Patch apprehensively makes his way towards the centre of the arena, taking in his surroundings. He’s edgy, confused.

Though not nearly as confused as I am. 

“Let’s see just how long this heretic can survive against the wrath of our family.”

Patch glares up at the Calypso’s podium, as Tyreen continues to sell his imminent death. 

Those bastards haven’t even given him a weapon to defend himself. 

_He was right. They’d planned this all along._

A second door into the pit lifts open, revealing a horde of screaming cultists. 

A single psycho armed with a buzz axe is the first to rush at Patch; who stands his ground and readies himself. The frenzied psycho swings for him several times, each swing of the axe barely misses his head. Patch grabs the psycho’s arm during the final swing. He wrestles the axe from his attacker, overpowering him and striking him once in the head. Dealing a brutal killing blow. 

The crowd cheer for the slay. Patch pulls the axe from the dead man’s skull. Now armed, he looks a little more confident as he prepares for his next attacker. 

“CUT DOWN THE HERETIC! FOR THE GOD-QUEEN.” Mouthpiece roars.

“FOR THE GOD-QUEEN!” The crowd echoes. 

This riles the psycho horde. They charge at Patch like a herd of stampeding animals. He’s outnumbered but uses their blind ambition to his advantage. One by one, he cuts them down. Not once does he hesitate. He knows he will receive no mercy and so he shows none in return. With the last of the horde falling to his axe, Patch is momentarily able to catch his breath. 

“Are you really going to let this heretic kill more of your brothers and sisters?! Make him pay! Tear him apart!” Tyreen is sparing no effort arousing the anger of her followers. 

The next wave of cultists storm the pit, eager to kill for the God-Queen’s favour. These ones are armed with guns and immediately open fire at Patch who makes a run for it.

I can’t pull my eyes away. 

_What the hell am I doing?_

He sprints towards the opposite side of the pit, dodging gunfire as best he can, and dives for cover behind a metal container. He’s taken several hits, that much I can tell. They appear to be flesh wounds. 

_I have to get down there._

More buzz axe and club wielding psychos enter the field. They flank Patch as he tries to catch his breath. He fearlessly fights them off. Carving into flesh, cleaving off arms and heads like his life depends on it. And it does. He’s not going to get out of this alive unless he can get his hands on a gun.

_I have to help him._

My body has completely seized up and refuses to move. 

Each dodge of a killing blow. 

_Is it fear?_

Each bullet that grazes his skin. 

_Am I too afraid?_

Each life he takes to protect his own, intensifies my state of paralysis. 

_Or is it because…_

I do nothing. 

_I don’t care._

Nothing but stand and stare.

Merely another face in the crowd. 

Patch is out of cover. He makes a desperate sprint towards a nearby gunner, who clumsily misses every shot he fires. As he fumbles around attempting to reload, Patch swings his axe into the side of the gunner’s throat. The angle the blade pierces causes a fountain of blood. It’s an instant kill.

At last, he has gun.

Patch swipes the rifle from the dead man’s hands and raises it above his head; shrieking like the wasteland psycho he is. 

He must have spotted me in the crowd during his war cry. He gives a nod and smiles. Confident. Hopeful.

This calms me, gives me brief hope that he will get out of this alive.

I lift my hand to acknowledge him, yet I haven’t the chance to return his smile.

My hope is promptly dashed before it has time to settle. Patch’s face contorts into agony.

_No…_

Seemingly out of nowhere, he’s taken bullet to the knee.

It’s fatal. Enough to force him down. 

_No…_

My eyes dart to the sight of a badass psycho wielding an axe twice his size. From only a brief length away, he lumbers towards Patch, dragging the weapon along the sand. 

The crowd begin to chat. 

“KILL. KILL. KILL. KILL.” 

Urging the colossal psycho to deal the killing blow.

_No._

Patch looks up at his executioner. He neither begs nor pleads. He’s accepted his fate. He must know the pain will soon be over.

“FINISH HIM OFF!!” Mouthpiece blares out his final demand.

The crowd eat his words and echo them in unison. 

The gigantic axe is lifted high into the air. The psycho swings once. And a single swing is all it takes to slice Patch’s head clean off his shoulders. 

_NO!_

The crowd roars as Patch’s lifeless body falls to the ground. Their voices are so loud that I cannot tell if my internal scream was, in fact, an external one.

“GLORIOUS!! A GLORIOUS SACRIFICE FOR THE TWIN GODS!!”

Patch’s head rolls across the arena floor, through the dust and blood. 

I have to turn away.

I can’t bear to look.

I don’t want to see the last, horrified expression etched onto the face of his decapitated head.

Visually, everything around me has blurred into a mass of colours and shapes.

The noise of the crowd. Mouthpiece’s wails of praise. All of it is blocked out and masked by the sound of my own blood gushing through my body. My heart beating as if I were the one who had been fighting for my last breath.

I want to scream. Overwhelmed by emotions I shouldn’t be feeling. 

Violence. Brutality. _Death._

These are the things I am as accustomed to as the sensation of breathing air.

So why does it feel as though I am witnessing it for the first time?

A sound breaks through my disorientation and reaches my ears. 

Tyreen’s voice. 

Her concluding speech and parting words of victory.

I can’t understand a word she is saying but I see her lingering in view. When her speech is over, she yet again stares in my direction. As though she has been awaiting my reaction this entire time.

There is no doubt in my mind that the satisfied grin she’s flaunting is intended for me alone.


	7. Indifference

Patch is dead. 

I _watched_ him die. 

I did _nothing_. 

I didn’t care.

_I don’t care._

I have no reason to feel guilt. 

That’s what I keep telling myself. The sleepless nights I’ve spent reliving his death in my mind, tell me otherwise. Days later and I cannot erase it. I’m angry at myself. Not for my lack of action, but for allowing myself to care. 

As heartless as it may be to consider, I have been cut more slack by the cult ever since Patch was killed. I no longer have a curfew and the door to my cell is now left unlocked from the outside. Safe to say I have free rein to roam the stronghold. It must have been at the Calypso’s orders that the door was locked from day one. So that Patch could not escape before he was used as a way to rack up views.

I have stuck to routine since the day I was taken prisoner. I have never once disobeyed an order. Even during the death of an acquaintance, I stood on the side-lines. The cult’s guard is down and now would be a perfect time to escape. But my mind is fogged with guilt, and it isn’t just the guilt from witnessing Patch die. His death has reopened some old wounds. I’m in no state to stage an escape. A clouded mind will lead to mistakes. Mistakes I cannot afford to make if I hope to get out of here alive. 

For now, I’ll keep my head down and continue to be the model worker. 

I’ve taken to working extra hours during the night. Working allows me to think, but at the same time keeps me busy. Lessening the risk of being consumed by my own thoughts.

I’m alone in the warehouse. Unsupervised. All the other workers left several hours ago. It’s pointless going back to my cell when I know I won’t be able to sleep. 

This warehouse holds a variety of the COV’s property. The spoils of war brought back from raids. I’m sorting my way through the guns and scrap taken from the latest raid. It was a big haul. So far most of it will be salvageable. 

It annoys me to think of what could have happened to my own rifle. Perhaps the cultists took it as part of the haul. If they did, I haven’t come across it yet. Maybe it’s back at Patch’s old camp, gathering dust on the ground where Troy kicked it. I’ll have to check back there when I get out of here. It’s the first and only hunting rifle I’ve ever owned. It was a gift from- 

“Well well, what do we have here?” 

That condescending voice is unmistakable. I look up from my workbench.

“Somebody’s up late.” Tyreen says from the doorway to the workshop. 

I could say the same to her but think better of it.

She closes the door and saunters towards me.

“Can’t sleep?” She asks, hands on her hips, from the opposite side of the table.

I could really do without this right now.

“Whatcha working on there?” Undaunted by my lack of response, she tries again, placing her palms on the bench.

She leans over, showing fake interest in the heap of scrap I’m busying myself with.

I have false hope that if I ignore her she’ll go away, and take her unexpectedly casual behaviour with her. It’s mildly irritating. Her blissfully ignorant pretense; that she isn’t keeping me prisoner and didn’t have an acquaintance of mine brutally murdered while forcing me to watch. 

Now she’s frowning. Arm’s crossed. Jaw clenched. Looks more like pouting. She doesn’t like to be ignored. 

“You really are a quiet one.” She paces around the table to stand at my side. “What do I have to do to get a reaction out of you, huh? Any reaction will do.”

Her eyes dart from me to my workbench. Deciding her next move. A smirk betrays that an idea has come to her. 

“What about…” She pushes some of the scrap off the bench and onto the floor. “This?!”

The clanging of metal landing at my feet echoes around the empty warehouse. 

Childish. 

I don’t react.

“No?? Alrighty then...” She jabs her finger into my forearm multiple times. “What about this?!”

Admittedly this gives me goose bumps. 

“Still no? Hmmm...” 

That extended hum is mischievous. I don’t like it.

Tyreen unfastens her coat slowly and without breaking our eye contact. She tosses it onto another table, then proceeds to lift herself backwards onto my work bench. Sitting and positioning herself to face me. One knee resting on top of the other, her head slightly inclined. 

“And what about now?” The sudden smoothness of her voice is terribly suggestive. 

She couldn’t have gotten closer if she’d tried. An inch nearer and she’d be sat on my hand. 

“What do you want?” I relent, stepping away to put distance between us. 

That damn shit-eating grin of hers. How satisfied she must be that she’s gotten me to speak. Very persistent.

“I came to check up on you.” She says, with a flip of her hair.

_Not bloody likely._

I shake my head wearily.

“Not buying it, huh? Okay, if I’m being compleeeetly honest, I couldn’t sleep. I was bored as hell. Decided to go for a walk around the compound. Noticed the light was still on in here and well…here I am.” She kicks her legs back and forth. “I didn’t actually know you were the one in here, but I’m glad you are. It gives us the chance to talk. Alone and undisturbed.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” I grumble.

“Rude much. Are you always so grumpy?” 

“I’m being held against my will. That’s not something anyone should be happy about.” 

“Oh don’t be so ungrateful. We’re giving you the chance to be a part of something amaaaazing! Me, Troy and our little family? We’re making history right here.” 

Tyreen taps her fingers on the table, waiting for a response. 

She doesn’t get one. 

“I get it.” She claps her hands together. “You’re more of a _basic needs_ kinda guy. So let’s see…you’ve got food, a roof over your head, protection, company…” She lists them off on her fingers. 

“I had all of that before.”

“You lived alone before; you didn’t have company.” She retorts. 

“The reason I lived alone was because I didn’t want company.”

She rolls her eyes, tiring of me already.

“Wow, Rowley, you’re just a barrel of fun, aren’t you?”

This is the first time we’ve been alone together, and I can already feel the volume of my anxiety has been amped up. Increasing every passing second that Tyreen silently holds her gaze. Her eyes are searching for the smallest hint of approval, admiration and a list of other things she definitely won’t be finding in me. 

As one who regards remaining silent a preferred state of being, its ironic how this particular silence is incredibly awkward to me.

It isn’t so much that I’m afraid of her, although I probably should be. 

I’m simply unsociable. 

And even if I wasn’t? She’d be the last person I’d want to speak to. 

An undeniable God complex coupled with a complete disregard for the suffering of others. 

She has already admitted the reason for her being here is because ‘she was bored as hell’. Which is enough to make me sceptical that any of this friendly behaviour is real and not just a part of her act. The last thing I want is to indulge her already inflated ego and ease her boredom by engaging in conversation.

The urge to leap through the nearest window in order to get away is growing at an alarming rate. As is the array of questions being raised in my addled brain. 

Questions that need answering.

The most important one being-

“Why are you doing this?”

_Shit._

I didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

Clearly not something she wanted to be asked, but the curious raise of her eyebrows prompts me to continue. 

Too late to turn back now.

“Why are you keeping me here? Forcing me to work but not killing me?” 

“Because you’re useful! Duh! Haven’t we been over this already? Do you really want to die that badly?” She laughs, her teasing an attempt to brush off my questions.

“No. I don’t want…I don’t understand your logic. You’re holding me as a prisoner, yet fully aware that I’m not going to worship you. Nor do I agree with anything that you’re doing here. You killed Patch. Made me watch him die. You haven’t killed me. And now you’re trying to be casual with me.”

My collection of thoughts didn’t come out as smoothly as I’d hoped for.

It takes her a moment to process my nervous rambling and she eventually responds to it with more laughter.

“Believe it or not, you might just be the first sane person I’ve met since starting a cult. Since arriving on Pandora even! Can you blame me for wanting to have a _normal_ conversation? One that’s coherent, without all the deranged screaming.” 

That explanation isn’t enough. She knows it and tries harder. 

“Honestly Rowley. I don’t get the chance to meet people. Ordinary people, like you. _Heretics_.” She shrugs. “My followers end up killing them.”

That’s exactly what doesn’t make sense. Of all the people here, who are quite literally dying for her attention, why would the ‘God-Queen’ want to have a conversation with me? 

“You want to have a conversation, with the one person who doesn’t believe in all of this nonsense you spew about being a God?”

She opens her mouth abruptly but seems to reconsider her initial, and presumably snarky, response. 

“I guess I’m just lonely...even Gods get lonely sometimes.”

That sounded awfully dramatic. An attempt to gain pity?

“You and your cult kill innocent people. I don’t believe you have the right to complain about being lonely.”

“Innocent people? Seriously? Ha, reality check! No one is completely innocent.” She drops down from the table and closes the space between us. “Take you for example. You’re quiet, all cool and collected, but I bet you’ve killed before. _AND_ , I bet you enjoyed it.”

“I only kill when I need to. For survival. Not for fun.”

On that note, I’ve just remembered the hunting knife on my belt. I’m surprised the cultists never took it from me when I got here. I indiscreetly feel for it.

“Booooring.” Tyreen yawns and stretches out her arms, taking note of my knife. “Ugh Rowley, you’re such a downer! But…alright then. Why don’t you kill me?” She goads, giving my arm a gentle punch. “Right now. For your _survival_.”

“You’re not invincible.” I state, trying my damndest to keep my voice steady. “You’re a siren, but that doesn’t make you a God.”

She doesn’t like that. Not one bit. 

I am wondering how far I can push with my bluntness, before she loses it and reduces me to red paste.

“Oh, right! Sure! Coz you’re the freaking siren expert. What the hell would someone like _you_ know about sirens? Or me for that matter?” 

I should stop talking.

Right now.

But seeing Tyreen agitated is oddly satisfying. 

I can’t resist. 

“I know that only six sirens can exist in the universe at any time. I know that each siren has a different power; and that these powers are transferred to another after she dies. You’re not the first siren I’ve met.”

The siren in front of me is notable stunned by the information I’ve just blurted out. A choice I may soon regret. 

“You’re not just some wasteland wanderer, are you? How the fuck do you-” 

She holds her hands up in the air. Stopping herself, before frustration gets the better of her.

“You know what? I’ve just realised I don’t care. All I wanted was to have a normal, ‘non-cult-related’ conversation with you, but you’re obviously still pissed about what I did to your friend.” 

That was a cruel snipe. She’s trying to gain the upper hand.

It’s worked.

“He wasn’t my friend.” I say coldly. “But he didn’t deserve what you did to him.”

“How can you say that?! How many people did that bandit rob of their lives? And here you are defending his name by saying he didn’t deserve to die.” She scoffs, throwing her arms out humorously in disbelief. “Shame you didn’t feel honourable enough to defend him while he was alive. Watching him die like that? I have to say, very cold.”

That stings.

Because it’s true. 

What right do I have to defend a man’s name who died due to my lack of action?

If I’d have gone down there to help, maybe he’d-

“He was a coward.” Tyreen smirks, taking my silence as a yield. “Back at his camp, he took one look at my powers, turned tail and ran like a little bitch. Left allllll his men to die by my hand while he tried to escape.” 

She’s pushing the knife in deeper. I must be so easy to read right now. Put on the spot, squirming and unable to fight back. She’s enjoying this. 

“What gives you the right to decide when people live or die…”

“Uh because I’m a God?!” She yells, confident in her claim. “That’s what happens to heretics. To people who don’t believe in the God-Queen and don't _obey_. You should consider that the next time you think about talking back to me.” 

I take no heed of her threat. 

“A God who kills her own followers regardless of how devoted they are to you.” I snap. She’s managing to push all the right buttons. Or all the wrong ones. “You’re not a God at all. You’re selfish, obnoxious and cruel.” 

Tyreen seems amused at my outburst. Whereas I have no idea where this is coming from. I can’t stop myself. This anger. Its not me.

“Why don’t you get it over with. Just kill me.” I challenge. “It’s what you do to everyone else who sees you for what you really are.”

“What I really am?” She manages to ask in between her snickering. 

“A monster.” My tone is low and bland. The emotion behind it isn’t. 

What comes next is something I do not expect. 

A sharp and searing pain across my right cheek.

It burns, like being struck by a piping hot iron. 

Winds me, as if my lungs have been crushed and the air forced out. 

A small yet startling taste of her powers. 

Tyreen recoils her hand after delivering the slap. Her siren markings have flared up. She’s wearing that same expression she gave me back in the throne room. As if I were the one who had just hit her. 

This strangely satisfying episode of trying to one-up each other has clearly gone too far for either of us to enjoy.

“I’m a _GOD_. You’d damn well better start seeing me and treating me like one.” She raises her hand, threatening to hit me again. “And since you’re so fucking eager to die, perhaps you’ll get the chance to during the next Let’s Flay.”

The self-proclaimed God-Queen grabs her coat and storms off in a huff, intent on having the last word.

“So be it…” I mutter, hopeful that she’s too far away to hear.

She isn’t. 

She turns back to me. Furious. Her markings flare up again. 

“You know what Rowley?!” It takes a great amount of restraint to tame her anger. She manages to pull it off though. “...We’re really not so different you and me. Neither of us are innocent, and both of us are selfish. We only care about ourselves. Isn’t that right?”

Satisfied with my inability to answer, she removes herself from my sight. Leaving me to dwell on her last words.

“That’s not true...” I say to an empty room. 

Once, I did care about someone else.

And I cared too much.


	8. Memory: The Price of Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid any confusion, I would like to explain that this chapter is one of several I have dubbed _'Memory'_.  
>  _Memory_ chapters will diverge from the main story-line. They are memories/flashbacks which I feel appropriate to add in at certain points of the story.  
> They will _(hopefully)_ provide some insight on the history/backstory of my Original Character.

I left Sanctuary at first light. I took the technical that Dray and I had built together from scratch, years ago back in New Haven. We had dubbed it _The Outsider_. An ironically fitting name for my actions at the time. Dray had insisted I take it. He said it would help me to cover more ground and would keep me alive.

I took only what I needed, which was also all that I owned. My rifle, my hunting knife, my ECHO device and the clothes on my back. Other supplies weren’t necessary. I was more than capable of hunting for food and finding water.

My travels took me across the entirety of the Frozen Wastes and into the Dead Sands. All the while avoiding Hyperion’s growing forces and fighting off the common Pandoran threats of bandits and vicious wildlife. 

I scoured the land. Left no stone unturned. My eagle eyes remained ever observant for the smallest fragment of hope. Any indication of where she might be. A clue she may have left for me to find.

_There was nothing._

Days and nights blurred together. In truth, I don’t know how long I spent searching for Pierce. But what I do know, is that I would have spent the remainder of my life looking for her. 

I even returned to New Haven, to walk through the rubble and ashes of my once home. 

_Not a single trace of her whereabouts._

All that remained were memories; once joyous, now harrowing. 

Determination kept me going. Or perhaps it was desperation.

Time was merciless; it carried on without me. 

In my heart I knew that there was a possibility she…

_No._

Pierce always had a plan. She was _alive_. Holed up somewhere with other survivors, waiting for a rescue. Maybe she was still travelling to Sanctuary. Maybe she was already there…

I had to keep coming up with excuses. It scared me to think rationally. The unbearable reality of it was, if any of those statements were actually true, she would have contacted me by now. 

Ultimately, I circled on myself; arriving back to where I had started my hunt. The Frozen Wastes. You could say that it was by pure chance I stumbled across a lost ECHO log. But I believe it was fate that allowed me to find an ECHO containing the voice of the woman I sought. 

Hearing her voice for the first time in ceaseless months was like a strong narcotic. It hit me like a Hyperion freight train, yet instantly soothed me. Restored my dwindling faith. 

Pierce had commandeered a Hyperion train with other survivors from New Haven. It was bound for Sanctuary.

At that stage, I didn’t realise this would be the last time I would ever hear her voice. 

  


\----

  


Snow was not something I was accustomed to. 

Pierce told me about it when I was a boy. She’d described it as ‘cold to the touch’ and ‘bleak yet beautiful’. She said one day we’d see it together. In a bitter-sweet way, we did. 

True to what she had told me, snow _was_ cold to the touch. So cold in fact that it burned my fingers as I dug through the wreckage of a Hyperion train. 

I was convinced that this was the train Pierce had spoken of. 

_So why was it here?_

Perhaps they had been attacked and had to abandon it. If so, I hoped to find something in the wreckage that would point me in the right direction.

The only scrap of evidence I found was a single ECHO log.

I should have steeled myself and prepared for the worse. 

But I didn’t. 

I couldn’t delay.

After all this time, I _needed_ to hear her voice again.

I _needed_ to know what happened to her. 

Where she was. 

How to find her.

_I needed to know she was safe…_

With my frostbitten fingers, it took multiple attempts for me to hit the play button to listen to the ECHO. 

I regret pressing play.

I regret not preparing for the worse. 

I regret lying to myself, for believing that there could be any other possible outcome. 

Handsome Jack’s conceited voice seeped out of my ECHO device like an aural disease. 

The dreadful sound of a single gunshot; a body hitting the floor. Jack’s cruel mockery. 

My greatest fear come to life.

Jack had killed Pierce. 

Up until that day, I had never cried a single tear. Not even as a child. I don’t think I knew how to cry. I’d never had a reason to before. My emotions had been repressed, though not by choice. Likely due to the trauma and neglect during my childhood. 

The recording ended and something frighteningly unfamiliar began to happen to me.

I broke down. Fell heavily onto my knees, cushioned by the snow. A lifetime’s worth of emotion rushed up and through my body, pouring out of my eye sockets. There was no stopping it. My face was soaked with tears and snot from my uncontrollable bawling. I was inconceivably terrified.

_This was my fault._

How could I have left her? How could I have let her down in her time of need?

_I killed her._

I saw no other reasoning, and no one was there to tell me differently. 

For hours I tortured myself, searching frantically through the wreckage, listening to those final ECHO logs over and over again. 

By the time I found Pierce’s body, I had no tears left to cry. The snow had preserved her. Well enough for me to recognise the woman who had rescued me, raised me and given me a home. 

Another new and overpowering emotion began to well up inside me as I clawed through the snow to dig out her body. Her hand was solid ice as I held it. No amount of warmth would ever give her life again.

The aurora was a beautiful shade of blue that night. A clear sky filled with billions of stars. I stared up at them as I held Pierce in my arms. Both of us were now void of life. It made me release how frightfully alone I was. 

I gave her a funeral of sorts; I owed her that much. I created a pyre and burned her body. Said my final farewell and scattered her ashes to the wind. My hope was that I had freed her spirit from the suffering she endured during life on this cursed planet. 

My promise to go back to Sanctuary was about to be broken. I had no intention of returning. My sights were set on Hyperion. The closest base of operation was the W.E.P. The Wildlife Exploitation Preserve. 

  


\----

  


I had no plan.

No careful thought or tactical strategy went into my revenge.

It was blind and irrational vengeance, driven by excruciating grief and rage. These foreign emotions that I had no understanding of, and absolutely no control over. 

It was suicide. 

_No._

It was _necessary_.

_Instinctual._

Nothing and no one would stand in my way. 

I’d avenge her, and they would suffer _far_ beyond the extent of my own suffering.

Breaking into the base was easy. Those people’s arrogance exceeded their intelligence. 

I tore through the preserve. As a beast, not a man. No man could be responsible for the carnage I sowed. My blade pierced flesh and punctured organs. Blood splattered the walls like paint and guts were spilled across the floor like thick, pulpy carpet. My fingers bore into eye sockets and my fists pummeled upon pleading faces until the screaming ceased. By the time I reached the labs of the preserve, I had lost count of how many lives I’d taken. 

Solider, scientist, employee… It mattered not. I’d murdered them all. Mutilated their bodies beyond anything that resembled a human being.

The glass separating me from the research labs forced me to face a reflection that was not my own; drenched in the blood of my kills and drained of all humanity.

Inside the labs, there was an eerie silence. The caged beasts and deceased test subjects told me all I needed to know about this corporation, and its leader. 

One cage was empty. Its door left wide open. As if they had been saving it for something special. 

That empty cage was the last thing I remember before taking a hit to the neck. I blacked out. When I awoke, I was on the inside. Imprisoned and deservedly caged, like the rabid animal I had become.


	9. Rumours

To think, I’ve been sober for an entire month. That’s a new record for me. What’s worse is that means I’ve been with the COV for an entire month. 

Ah, drinking. One of the few things that can smooth out my inner turmoils. It helps me to relax, eases my anxiety, boosts my confidence. Most importantly it makes me temporarily forget. With everything that’s been going on recently, I could definitely do with a strong drink to help me forget. _Several_ strong drinks. 

The COV have multiple bars and clubs within the stronghold. Presumably where the cultists drink themselves into a mindless stupor, which wouldn’t be too different from their natural state of being.

One bar in particular has caught my eye many a time. A small establishment, dubiously called ‘The Devil’s Drink’. From the outside it looks like a typical Pandoran bar; flashing neon signs and corpses strung up as decoration.

I haven’t dared to venture inside before. The likelihood of being thrown out was high. The likelihood of being beaten, stabbed, shot and then thrown out was even higher.

My thirst is surpassing any logic.

There is alcohol inside this building, and I need it. Now.

I ease the door open.

Take a few cautious steps and...

I’m in. 

It looks even smaller on the inside. A dirty, dingy, run down biker bar. I’m pretty sure that’s stale piss I can smell.

Getting a few odd looks, nothing out of the ordinary. The place is dead. The few patrons that are here are too drunk to take action against my presence. The man behind the bar holds up a welcoming hand and flashes a devilish smile. He has neatly cut, jet-black hair. A clean-shaven face. Wearing a deep red, slim-fit tuxedo, with a single splash of blood on the left side of his otherwise flawless white shirt.

He looks entirely out of place. 

We both do. 

“Whiskey on the rocks?” He asks as I take a seat at the bar.

I nod. 

How did he-

“Bet you’re wondering how I knew. Well, let me tell you. All it takes is a single glance for me to know what a person’s poison of choice is. It’s one of those ‘useless talents’. Very useful in my profession though.” He skilfully produces a glass out of thin air and places it on the bar between us. “You’re the new guy. Rowley. The _non-believer_.” 

There’s sarcasm present in the way he drags out that last word. I don’t think it’s directed at me.

“You know, there was a bet going on in my bar. _How long would the heretic survive in the home of our family?_ Gotta say buddy, you don’t look like much, but you’ve lost some people a lot of money. A whole month and with not so much as a scratch on you. Impressive.”

It’s not from the lack of people trying to kill me, I can say that much. Sometimes running for your life from a horde of psychos is the best way to…keep your life. 

“They said you was a quiet one.” The barman comments, unscrewing the top of the whiskey bottle.

“Who’s they?” I ask, out of courtesy as opposed to interest.

I’ve been sat here for less than five minutes and can already tell this guy is the talkative type. He isn’t going to shut up any time soon.

“People.” He begins to pour. “People like to talk when they’ve had a drink, don’t they? You know how it is. A lot of rumours going around about you. Hard to tell which ones are true.”

Great. Good to know I’m the talk of the stronghold. It’ll do wonders for my paranoia.

“First you’re spared the wrath of our Twin God’s during their raid. Brought back as a prisoner, which is a bizarre occurrence on its own. Then you’re summoned to the throne room, and leave unscathed. _THAT_ is a rare honour. The only followers who get summoned by the God-Queen end up decorating her throne room. Sacrifices.” 

I acknowledge this as the truth. Images of the husks dotted about the floor space of that thrown room suddenly come back to mind.

“The latest rumour is a juicy one. A while back one of my regulars said he saw the God-Queen talking to you in the workshop.” He pushes the brimming glass towards me with a single finger, watching my face intently. “At night. Alone.” 

“What’s your point?” I sigh, fully aware of what he’s insinuating.

“You know what my point is.”

“Nothing happened.” I take a much-needed swig from my glass. 

_Holy hell._

How I’ve missed this sensation. That smoky, slightly bitter taste on the tongue. The pleasant burn as it travels down the throat. The confidence and ease that arises soon after it hits the stomach.

A sensation to be savoured.

“All I’m trying to say is you should watch your back. If you gain the Twin God’s favour, that’s definitely going to rub some people the wrong way.” The barman waits for me to take another mouthful of my beverage. “You should probably watch your front too; if the God-Queen has taken a liking to you.”

I almost choke. 

_Bullshit._

As if provoking and slapping someone across the face is an effective way of showing affection. 

“The only thing she’s taken a liking to is tormenting me.” I say resentfully, in between coughs. Remembering how quickly her friendly attitude had soured. 

“Cats like to play with their food.” The barman says wisely. 

That we can agree on. 

Why else would she take interest in me?

A heretic. 

A _nobody_ , as her brother so kindly put. 

Although I wouldn’t compare her to a cat. More like a needy, terrier type dog. One that barks a lot and requires constant attention.

“If she wants to kill me, I wish she’d get it over and done with. I’m not afraid to die.” 

It’s obvious I haven’t drunk for a while. The alcohol has gone straight to my head. The buzz is already making me feel brazen.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll get your wish. Our God-Queen isn’t the merciful type. I’m surprised she hasn’t offed you already if you’ve been giving her backtalk.”

“She doesn’t like being ignored or hearing the truth. What _does_ she like?” I ponder out loud, swilling the remaining whiskey around my glass.

“Blind devotion.” The barman replies, with no hesitation. 

“I need to get the hell out of here.” I conclude, downing my drink and pushing the empty glass forward for a refill. 

I’ve had this inescapable feeling recently that someone’s eyes are on me. And I don’t mean the cultists who admit, on the daily, that they want to use my body parts for their meat bicycle. 

Thinking about it…I have been seeing Tyreen more frequently. 

She hasn’t spoken to me or approached since putting me in my place with that slap across the cheek. But I’ve seen her about the stronghold. Watching me from a distance. While I’m walking from place to place. While I’m working.

Unnerving. 

An attempt at intimidation? Plotting an appropriate demise for me?

It’s hard to tell whether I should expect a knife in the back, a gunshot to the face or to have the life drained out of me. Tyreen is about as unreserved as a person can get, yet I find it difficult to get a good read on her and understand her motives towards me. 

“So, what’s the reason you don’t want to stay here? Got family on the outside or something?” The barman asks, ending the pleasant silence. 

I wait until he’s finished refilling my glass. I’m going to need to take another sip before answering that question. 

“Not anymore.”

“What’s the problem then?” He asks, noting the speed at which I’m drinking. He’s debating whether or not to screw the top back on the bottle. “This place isn’t so bad.” 

My facial expression now implies he has just sprouted horns. 

“It’s no different from anywhere else in the Borderlands.” The barman shrugs. “I’m assuming you grew up on Pandora. Can sort of tell by your lack of people skills.” 

“Yeah…”

“I meant no offence!” He waves his hands in the air jokingly, as though he’s expecting me to draw a gun on him. “You know what it’s like trying to survive on this damned planet. Every day is a struggle. Here with the Children of the Vault, we have half a chance. _Salvation_ is what they call it.”

“Bandit clans and cults like this are the reason there’s so much violence and death on Pandora.”

“If you can’t beat them, join them.”

Starting to sound like he’s striving to promote the COV. Perhaps that’s his secret objective. Get people drunk, then brainwash them with not-so-subtle cult promotion. 

“Find your salvation here too?” I ask dryly. 

“In a way. I’m from Promethea. Through a series of unfortunate events, I ended up stranded on Pandora. Tried to be a bandit. Was never any good at that. Only thing I’ve ever killed is time; sat behind a desk or stood behind a bar. So, I joined up with the COV.”

“I was forced here.” I say glumly between sips of whiskey. “Against my will.” 

“You don’t want to be here. I get that. But you _are_ here. In this situation. The only way out of the cult is death.” The barman smirks in preparation for his next statement. “Suppose you could try asking Tyreen to let you go.” 

He’s pulling my leg with that remark. Surely.

I shake my head and down my drink.

“It could be a lot worse. You could be chained up in a cell, tortured daily. No one is forcing you to take part in the killings or sacrifices either. Same with me. Now I don’t agree with everything that happens here, but I’m safe from all the other dangers this planet has to offer. We do what we have to, to survive.”

He may be attentive with the refills but I’m liking this barman less and less. He’s too damned clever for his own good.

“Bit of parting advise before I leave you to drink yourself into oblivion. Let go of whatever shit from the past you’re dragging behind. Take one day at a time. And give it a chance here. You might be pleasantly surprised.”

He purposely leaves the bottle of whiskey within arm’s reach as he tends to other customers. 

It isn’t out of the ordinary to hear a bartender dish out unwanted advice. After all, the bar and the bottom of a bottle is where everyone ends up when they’re feeling lost. 

  


\----

  


Don’t remember the journey from the bar to my cell. There’s no blood on me; that’s always a good sign.

I thoroughly enjoyed those drinks but could have done without the life lecture. Next time I go there I _won’t_ be sitting at the bar. 

I stagger into the cell, fortunately keeping my balance. And remembering to slide across the lock I installed, for added security, on the inside of the cell door. 

I turn, with the intention of moving forward to drop face first onto my bed.

Instead, my body turns rigid at the sight of what lays upon it.

I hadn’t noticed when I walked in a moment ago.

A large, suspicious, rectangular wooden box rests a fraction beneath the pillow of my bed. 

_A bomb._

That’s my first thought upon seeing it.

The possibility doesn’t stop me from approaching. I’m disturbingly less cautious about this than I should be. I blame the booze. 

After giving the box a thorough and misguided visual inspection, I deduce that the top can simply be lifted off. I foolishly sit down beside the mysterious box. I slide my fingers under the top and brace myself. If it is a bomb, at this range it’ll be an instant death. Hopefully.

The lid lifts off with ease. It hasn’t been sealed. 

What lays within the box, stumps me. 

It’s…a rifle?

_Either my eyes are deceiving me, or this is…_

I lift the weapon out of the box to inspect it closer. I run my fingers over the wooden stock. Tracing over the name engraved into the wood. Just like I did the very first time I held this gun. I was ten years old. 

_This…is my rifle._

I’m holding _my rifle_. And with it comes a rush of heartfelt, bittersweet memories. The kindly face of the woman who had gifted it to me all those years ago. 

I would cry tears of joy. Smile, at the very least. If only I knew how.

There is no note or visible indication to who left it here. Just a blank wooden box placed neatly on my bed. With my rifle stored delicately inside. 

I may be drunk but it’s clear that someone took great care to return it to me. In immaculate condition. 

For this, I am grateful beyond words.


	10. Message Received

Sixteen long hours I’ve been on my feet today. Slaving away under the heat of the merciless Pandoran sun. Having only slept two hours the night before. How I never passed out from heat stroke is beyond me. 

That crazy woman with the bright pink ponytails was in charge again. Boney Ann. I watched her beat a man to death with a tyre iron. After she was finished with her display of authority, she ordered me to drag the mangled corpse to ‘the pit’. The COV make sure the local wildlife never goes hungry.

I collapsed on my bed about ten minutes ago. It’s as comfy as laying on a concrete slab but I’m refraining from moving. My body is screaming out for sleep. My damned over-active mind refuses to shut off. I have a million thoughts rushing through my head like the cells in my blood. A collection of wrong decisions. A flood of bad memories. _What ifs._

Hiding my emotions has always come naturally. Even during moments like these when my life was falling apart. Sanity and control slipping through my fingers like the desert sand. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep it together all these years.

I’ve had to. 

In my burned-out state I gracelessly attempt the untying of my combat boot laces, which is a struggle all on its own. Those are kicked off, purposely aimed at the screen above the door which is playing re-runs of the Calypso’s latest content. Next up is my t-shirt and cargo shorts, both of which I manage to wriggle out of. The sight of me doing so, comparable to a sand worm caught in a net. 

I must look such a pitiful wreck. 

What would Pierce say if she could see the state my life is in?

_Stop it._

_Don’t think like that._

Perhaps some music will relax me enough to induce sleep. Usually does.

I borrowed, _in other words skillfully acquired_ , a pair of headphones I spotted in the warehouse. The sound quality and bass are nothing compared to mine back at the shack, but they’ll have to do for now. Not in a position to pick and choose. 

My ECHO device is on the floor, a mere stretch away. Even that seems like too much hard work.

I strain my arm, desperately reaching for it. 

**_\-- Ping --_ **

My hand stops, hovers above the device, trembles.

I grab the ECHO. Bring it into my view and– 

A message?

I never get messages. I have no one _TO_ message. I don’t have a single person in my contacts list. Not since I left Sanctuary. That part of my life is over. Yet here I am. Staring at a message from an unknown sender.  


My finger lingers over the delete button. 

Whoever it was, probably sent it by accident.

Curiosity is getting the better of me.

_\-- What’s up? --_

Definitely a mistake.

I delete the message. No reason to think anything more of it. Time to search through my impressive collection of music files. 

There are two playlists that I’m drawn to. Playlists that I have avoided listening to for a very long time. 

_‘Dray’s Thrash Metal!!’_ and _‘Synthwave and chill.’_

The nostalgia is forcing something that resembles a smile through my sullen expression. It’s accompanied by a heavy weight on my heart.

Dray and Erin’s old playlists, from before Sanctuary. 

Before the Crimson Raiders. 

Before the Vault Hunters. 

Before _everything._

Back when we were three teenagers, living in New Haven. When life seemed so much simpler.

It was Dray and Erin who crafted me into such an avid lover of music. They were well acquainted with it, having come to Pandora from Promethea. The City of Lights.

Somehow, I don’t think heavy metal will aid me in my quest for sleep. Synthwave it is.

  


\----

  


I’m five or six songs into the playlist and my eyes are getting heavy. The dreamy, nostalgic, synthesizer-based music is sending my mind pleasantly drifting towards tranquility. 

**_\-- Ping --_ **

My eyes shoot open at the sound. I’m wide awake again.

Another message?

_\-- It’s rude to ignore someone when they ask you a question --_

Whoever this is must think I’m somebody else.

Funny though, I feel like I’ve seen this sentence before. 

I delete the message. Again.

Shit. Forgot to block the sender. I don’t want to be disturb-

**_\-- Ping --_ **

I bring the device right up to my face.

_\-- Unless you’re busy with something…hope I’m not interrupting ;) --_

The screen glares at me in the dark, harsh on my eyes. I glare back just as harshly.

“What the fuck…”

It takes me mere seconds to come up with an appropriate response and hit send.

_\-- You’ve got the wrong person. Stop messaging me –-_

On second thought, I shouldn’t have responded at all.

**_\-- Ping --_ **

My heart jumps. Not only at how quickly they replied but also…

_\-- I don’t think so Rowley --_

_My name._

They know my name. 

_How...?_

_Who?!_

It’s likely one of the cultists playing a prank. Trying to freak me out. 

So far, they’re succeeding. 

I shouldn’t respond. I should block them and forget about it.

I type clumsily, having to delete and re-type several words due to my jittery fingers.

_\-- How do you know my name? Who is this?? –-_

After an agonizingly long pause of me clutching my ECHO, when it finally goes off, I flinch. 

The message on screen does nothing to settle me.

_\-- Tyreen --_

Its only one word but I read it over and over again. 

It isn’t registering.

This has to be a joke. A prank. 

Why the hell would she- 

**_\-- Ping --_ **

I lunge upwards. My anxiety fuelling me with energy I didn’t know I had left. Sitting cross-legged, I’m clenching my ECHO so tightly I fear it may snap. 

_\-- If you don’t believe me…--_

There’s an attachment. An image. I’m afraid to open it. Mostly because I expect it to be a jump scare. Partly because it might really be her. 

I open the attachment, peering through my fingers as I shield my eyes like a coward. 

_Holy. Hell._

_It’s her._

There she is. Staring at me from my ECHO device screen. Sat on a sofa…lounging on it really. Assumingly in her living quarters. 

She looks…relaxed.

Dressed casually. A pair of shorts and a blue tank top.

Showing a little more skin than usual...

Wait...

_What the hell am I thinking?_

My head shakes involuntarily, and I realise how much I’ve been gawking at the picture. 

Tempted to punch myself in the face for that.

_\-- Ok. I believe you. What do you want? --_

**_\-- Ping --_ **

Another unnaturally quick reply. 

_\-- Nothing right now. And good. You can keep the pic. Don’t do anything weird with it ;) --_

I delete the image and messages without a moments delay.

Put my ECHO on silent.

Launch it across the room. 

Far away from me.

What the hell was all that about?

  


\----

  


I wake in a cold sweat. Can’t remember the nature of the nightmare I suffered, but I instantly recall the strange events of last night. The messages. Those too must have been a dream. A very bizarre dream. My ECHO device is lay in disgrace in the corner of the cell. I’m hesitant to look at it. 

There’s no evidence on the ECHO, no other messages received. I must have been more tired than I realised; to be delirious enough to imagine such nonsense. 

I leave the room promptly, after cleaning myself up to what I believe is acceptable hygiene and presentation. Thank what ever God exists that there is not a mirror in the cell. 

On my way to the warehouse, my attention is drawn to a heaving crowd of cultists who are going berserk. More so than usual. 

Must be the Calypso’s. 

What else would draw in the fans but the public appearance of their Gods?

Even from the back of the crowd, it’s easy to see Troy. He’s so damn tall. No chance in hell I’ll be able to see Tyreen from where I’m stood. Not that I have any desire to. The very thought of her gives me an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I can hear Mouthpiece, even over the chorus of shrieking, uniting the mass of mindless bodies that I suddenly find myself amongst. Hordes of this size would usually set my anxiety off in an instant. But in this moment, I’m inexplicably driven.

Being agile and light on my feet, I slip through the mass of bodies easily and unnoticed. Moving closer to the main attraction.

_Closer._

_And closer._

Now all three of them are in view, the Twin Gods and their Holy Mouthpiece. Addressing the zealous crowd, whose collective energy is alien to me.

What exactly is the appeal that everyone else can so evidently feel? 

Mouthpiece is playing the role of living-blockade for the Twin’s, their last line of defence against the infatuations of their rabid fans. 

Troy’s eyes are lazily glancing around. His smirk shows a degree of confidence. His stance, regardless of his height, is lacking. 

I believe that’s Tyreen’s fault. She outshines her brother every time they are together.

Her eyes are frantic. Darting around the faces in the crowd while she parades about the stage. How confidently she carries herself. The sassy sway of her hips as she walks. The flipping of her hair and wild gesticulating. So animated and full of life.

Perhaps _that_ is the visual appeal.

She’s exciting to watch, and the energy she emits is infectious to anyone within range. 

Even my own eyes seem obliged to linger on the effortless flow of her movements. I’m putting it down to mere curiosity.

One of the psycho’s manages to jab me in the ribs with his elbow, while jumping up and down wildly. Much like his arse has been lit on fire.

Tyreen was wrong. 

We are _nothing_ alike. 

We’re complete opposites.

She’s magnetic; drawing people in with her larger than life personality. People want to watch her; they want to be near her.

Whereas I’m overlooked and easily forgotten. Reserved. Uninteresting. I can imagine watching me is on par with watching paint dry.

If this is true, I wonder how her eyes have found mine.

The only calm in this storm of insanity that engulfs us both.

She holds our shared gaze for too long to be a mistake. 

Any one of her followers would consider this act a blessing.


	11. A Warning

The last person I’d expect to see standing at my door is Troy Calypso. Especially this early in the morning. Yet after answering the incessant and rather aggressive hammering, here he stands. Refusing to acknowledge that I’ve opened the door and am now waiting for some sort of explanation.

He’s sulking. The resemblance is uncanny to his sister’s moody, pouting expression. Doubt he’d appreciate knowing that.

I take a breath to speak but he beats me to it.

“What?” He barks angrily.

Considering he’s the one knocking at my door, shouldn’t I be asking that?

“What do you want Troy?” 

He’s obviously not here to try to kill me, else he wouldn’t have been so persistent with knocking. 

“Don’t say my name so fucking casually.” He snaps, making fierce eye contact.

Fine with me. I have a list of other names I’d much rather call him.

Troy leans against the door-frame, combing his fingers through his greasy looking hair. He rubs his forehead with his flesh hand, preparing to swallow his pride.

“I was setting up some new systems. Thought it would help our editing team to speed up production. I don’t know what the fuck happened but... Poof! Everything’s gone. GONE. All of it. All our footage, all the new content, all the edited _AND_ unedited clips. The whole lot. I’ve lost…everything!” He rants, a mixture of frustration and despair. “Suppose that’s what I get for buying cheap-ass software…shit, Tyreen is gonna freak the _fuck_ out. We’ve got deadlines to meet. _I’VE_ got deadlines to meet. If she finds out it’s all gone, she’ll blame me. I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

He’s venting and avoids looking at me for the duration of his episode. He’s also failed to mention why any of this is relevant to me and why it led him to my door.

Now he’s gone silent, reluctant to drop the question. I take the initiative. Partly to spare his dignity, partly to irritate him further.

“You’re asking for my help?” 

“I’m not _asking_ you anything!” Troy shoots me a furious glance, his tongue sharp as he corrects me. “I’m _ordering_ you to help me.”

Of course he is. 

“Look, I don’t like you.” He takes a deep, tiresome breath.

Good to know the feeling is mutual.

“You’re a nobody and an arrogant little shit. It pisses me off just seeing your stupid expressionless face.” Troy towers over me menacingly, pointing his metal finger in my face. “But…you’re smart. Unlike the other idiots I have to work with. I can easily recover the content, but it’s going to take _forever_ to do it on my own. I don’t want to have to listen to Tyreen nagging at me to get it done.”

It makes sense for Troy to use his colossal height as an intimidation technique. It would be effective, if not for how frail his body looks this close up. Like a strong gush of wind could topple him over. 

“Alright. Lead the way.” I reply coolly. 

My instantaneous agreement takes him by surprise. The threatening expression he was pulling has all but disappeared. The intimidation attempt wasn’t necessary. I would have agreed to help him regardless. If for no other reason than the chance to get my hands on a computer. 

Damn do I miss my personal computer. And above all else, gaming.

\----

So _this_ is the infamous COV editing room. 

It’s smaller and more closely knit than I had expected. Several rows of polished desks, with a total of fifteen computers kept in pristine condition. High-end pieces of machinery assumingly allocated to individual editors; the other members of Troy’s ‘propaganda bullshit’ team. Each monitor is accompanied by a flawless and expensive looking leather chair. 

There’s a nice smell in here too, a ‘new car’ sort of smell. A pleasant change to the odour of week old sweat and decay that lingers in the warehouse. 

I scour the room a second time, a little more attentively. We’re the only ones here. No sign of Tyreen. There’s a relief. 

Troy clears his throat to get my attention.

“She’s not here.” He states, as if he read my mind. 

“Who?” I reply, caught in the act.

“The person you’re looking around for. _Tyreen_.” He says accusingly. “I know she’s been talking to you.” 

Troy sits down at what I presume is his personal workstation. It’s the only desk in the room with a single computer upon it, positioned a good distance away from the other desks. The chair is notably larger, more of a throne than a desk chair, fit for a king. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea about her. You’re nothing special. Sure, she might like you now, but it’ll wear off. All she wants is a bit of fun. You’ll be dead when she gets bored of you. Or when she gets you into bed.”

I think he’s the one who has the wrong idea about me.

“Maybe its coz you don’t give her attention like everyone else does. You’re playing hard to get. You’re a challenge.” Troy muses to himself while starting up his computer. “Maybe its coz you answer her back. None of the other guys have the balls to do that.” 

“I’m not playing hard to get.” I disagree with him. “I have no intention of-”

“Tyreen _hates_ it when she doesn’t get her own way.” Troy whirls around on his chair to face me. “She loves being the centre of attention, I’m sure you’ve noticed. You’ll give into her eventually and when you do, you’ll end up like the others.” 

“Others?” I prompt. 

“Crushes, potential flings and bed warmers…whatever.”

“I have no intention of sleeping with your sister.” I say in earnest. 

Troy stares me down. I don’t buckle under the pressure. 

“Heh, I actually believe you.” He relaxes backwards into his chair, drumming his metal fingers on the arm. “Makes you the first. Any one of these assholes would give their life for a night with the _God-Queen_.”

That goes without saying. The circulating rumours, about Tyreen’s new-found fondness for me, has painted a huge target on my back. The cultists don’t want a filthy heretic getting cosy with their God-Queen. Hell, I don’t want it either. 

“They don’t last long. She tends to _break them_ , before she can get what she wants from them.”

 _“Break them?”_ I echo.

“Oh yeah, you heard right. Tyreen’s not as in control of her powers as you might think. They flare up with her emotions. She ends up leeching anyone she gets close to.” Troy spins around to his monitor and jabs the keyboard to input a password. “It’s gotten worse over the years. She can barely touch anyone without accidently hurting or killing them...No surprise she failed to mention that.”

I take a moment to allow the new information to sink in. If Tyreen isn’t in control of her powers, then she’s more dangerous than I originally realised. Allowing her to get close to me, just for the sake of gaining trust to make an escape, seems like an unhealthy risk to take. 

I have to ask myself why Troy is telling me all of this. 

“Thanks for the warning.” 

“I’m not warning you. I just want you to know where you stand. You’re not any use to us dead.” Troy responds over his shoulder. “Anyway, moving swiftly on from my sister. I do most of the editing for the cult from here. I used to do the editing from my own computer in my bedroom. Now, we have all of THIS! The COV’s official editing room!” 

He sounds proud. Suppose he has the right to be. You won’t find another set up like this anywhere on Pandora. All in all, it’s impressive.

“You should consider yourself lucky, for a nobody. Not many get to see these badass pieces of machinery.” Troy adds, clicking away at his keyboard. 

“Does Tyreen have a computer too?” I suddenly blurt out. 

_Idiot_. 

Troy’s typing stops.

“No. She doesn’t.” He says firmly. “Why the hell do you care anyway?” 

I shrug, honestly uncertain why I asked the question.

“I thought, because she’s the boss-”

“Tyreen? The boss?” Troy laughs. “Pfft yeah, she likes to think she is. She puts on a good show, acting like she’s the center of the universe, but I’m the brains behind all of this. Tyreen hasn’t got a fucking clue how to do any of this _‘tech stuff’_ as she calls it. She’d never admit it, but she’d be lost without me. I created her persona. I write the scripts for her to read out to our followers. She wouldn’t be the ‘God-Queen’ without me.”

Troy realises he’s been ranting. He pauses. Hesitates. Drops his harsh tone to almost a whisper. 

“And I’d be dead without her.”

There’s a genuine warmness to his sentence. 

“It’s…nice…to have someone to rely on.” Whereas it sounds like I’ve just read something you'd find inside a fortune cookie.

“How would you know? You’re a _wanderer, you live in the wastelands_.” Troy quotes me. He’s never going to let me live that down. 

“I wasn’t always alone.” I say solemnly. 

Troy’s barrage of hostility hitches. He wants to pry but represses his curiosity. 

“Whatever. Don’t even know why I told you all that. Just shut up and help me get this shit done. I want you out of here before Tyreen comes to check on me.” 

Probably so he can take all the credit. 

“Go ahead and start up any of these computers. They’ve got all the same software set up and they’re all linked to the same server.”

I browse the room’s selection of computers, before becoming distracted by the sight of something familiar on Troy’s desk. 

“Hey, nobody, you listening to me?” He asks as I approach.

My eyes are set on the video game case to Troy’s left. When he becomes aware of what I’m staring at, he moves his hand to cover it. 

“Don’t touch that.” He says protectively. “It’s worth more than you are.”

“I have that one.” I say, ignoring his insult. 

“You-”

“The original game. And the trilogy.” 

Troy’s eyes light up. There’s a drastic change in his facial expression. 

“You...you’ve played the trilogy?” He stutters. 

“Yeah. It’s my favourite game series. I have the games on computer and console.” I say fondly, recalling the incalculable number of hours I put into playing those games.

When Troy realises the breach in his attitude, he quickly amends it with a gruff, apathetic response. 

“Hmph…Didn’t realise you were a gamer too.” 

\----

We’ve been at this for hours. I might not like the guy but I can’t deny, Troy sure knows his stuff. He’s smarter than he looks. And he seems increasingly annoyed at how much I myself know. I think he’s impressed with my computing skills but simply doesn’t wish to show it. 

I’ve always been able to turn my hand to anything tech-involved. Hardware or software. Old tech or new. Never had any official training; I’m self-taught. Perks of being over observant and a fast learner. 

I might be overdoing it by saying that I’ve enjoyed working here. The editing room is refreshingly cool and dark, quiet and far away from the stress induced by interacting with other people. I’ve been in my element. The entire day has felt like a friendly competition rather than actual work. _Who can recover the lost data quicker?_ Another hour and I reckon we’ll have recovered the lot of it. 

There’s a loud click, the sound of a door handle being jolted. And I hear the door to the editing room swing open. 

“Uggggh…I’m soooo tired.” 

Me and Troy freeze in typing motion the second we hear that voice, and both spin around to face the source.

“Troy, have you finished-” Tyreen gasps when she lays eyes on me. “Rowley! What are you doing in here...?” 

She looks utterly mortified to see me. Amusingly, Troy’s face is the mirror image.

“Tyreen! He’s… he’s uh helping. I asked him- _told_ him to help me work on some stuff for the cult.” Troy leaps up from his chair, clearly expecting her to be angry.

I follow his lead and stand up from my seat. 

“I was a little behind on my work…Figured the _nobody_ could make himself useful and help out with editing our new content.” Troy explains, bending the truth as the look of guilt spreads across his face. As if he’s been caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t. 

“Oh…right.” Tyreen says flatly.

There’s a chill in the room as the three of us stand in silence. The current direction of Tyreen’s mood is challenging to read; I feel this is going one of two ways. Either she’s going to explode; rant and rave at her brother, then unleash hell upon me. Or she’s going to shift moods faster than a pack of skags devour a bandit steak. 

Thankfully, it turns out to be the latter. 

Tyreen’s tell-tale, _I’m-so-pleased-with-myself_ , grin emerges from her dour expression. She hops and skips her way towards me, stopping barely a foot away.

“Row-ley!” She exclaims in singsong. “It’s SO good to see you! I’ve been super busy today! Let me tell you about it. I’ve been meeting and greeting my fans, taking offerings, passing judgement and wise council. You knoooow, the never-ending duties of a God-Queen...I’m super tired now!” 

Tyreen dives right into casual, one-sided conversation, leaving me in a slack-jawed stupor. She doesn’t look or sound remotely tired. Her hands are avidly sweeping through the air, expressing her enthusiasm, as her consistent babbling goes on for another five minutes solid. If she keeps this up, I might get an accidental punch or slap. She’s literally _‘all hands’_ when she gets excited.

“Soooo, tell me about your day! You’ve been helping Troy? Oh oh! Did you like the surprise I left you?”

I take this opportunity to finally get a word in.

“My rifle.” 

Tyreen’s smile somehow succeeds in growing wider at my response. 

“Mhm! Yep! I came across it. Thought you might like it back.” 

I _am_ grateful to have it back. It means so much more to me than she realises. 

“Thank you.” I drone, unsure how else to respond. 

“Aww, you’re welcome!” Tyreen hums, twiddling a piece of hair around her finger. She’s oddly satisfied with my half-arsed attempt at gratitude.

Troy clears his throat, intent on interrupting our moment. 

“Hey Ty, we’re uh…we’re not finished yet so d’ya mind..?”

I know she’s heard him, but Tyreen chooses not to acknowledge her brother. Instead, she’s gazing expectantly up at me, waiting to hear my next words. 

“We still have work to do.” I say to her, furthering Troy’s remark. 

“Oh. Alrighty.” Tyreen replies, a little disappointed. “I’ll leave you boys to it.” 

I’m amazed at how quickly she's complied, and that she's complied at all. 

“See you guys later! Play nice!” She sticks out her tongue before leaving the room and softly closing the door behind her. 

When we’re alone again, I catch Troy rolling his eyes and shaking his head. 

“Whatever you say Ty…” He mutters under his breath.


	12. Let's Flay, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another heartfelt thank you to any and everyone who has read/is reading this story.  
> I need to give credit to my bro for beta-reading each chapter _(and for putting up with my ceaseless delusions and rantings about the story)_. He’s been playing the Borderlands series for as long as I have. Ain’t no rest for the wicked!

For the past several weeks I’ve been receiving daily messages on my ECHO device. Being bombarded with messages every evening, is a little more accurate. Messages from one self-proclaimed God-Queen. One Tyreen Calypso.

The messages have consisted of detailed recounts of her day, and elaborate descriptions of what she’s doing at that _precise_ moment. As well as asking me multitudes of random, pointless questions. It’s been one-sided, for the most part. I speak as much over text messages as I do in person. Not a lot. 

With Troy’s warning still fresh in mind, I have been sceptical about Tyreen’s true intentions. And since that day I spent working in the editing room, it seems I have been promoted to occasional editor-slash- _tech guy_. Which is, without doubt, a nice change of pace from physical exhaustion. Even if Troy does still refer to me as _‘the nobody’_.

Between Tyreen’s persistent messaging and Troy regularly wanting my help in the editing department, I’m mentally exhausted. Far too much social interaction for a recluse like me. 

I don’t honestly know what I’m doing anymore.

Is this still part of the plan? 

Gaining the Calypso’s trust and then making my daring escape?

Thing is, I haven’t been trying to gain their trust at all. I’ve simply been going with the flow of events. Which brings me to my current predicament.

Tyreen’s final message from last night was inviting me to watch the upcoming Let’s Flay. With her.

 _\-- Come on, it’ll be fun! Like a first date! --_

I could practically hear her ecstatic voice ringing in my ears as I read the message. 

Watching people kill each other and/or be sacrificed is _not_ my idea of fun, or a date. Especially considering that Patch was killed in that arena. I’m still raw about it. 

I didn’t respond to the message yet have been pulled into this situation regardless. Via a large, angry and ridiculously strong cultist who quite literally dragged my arse from my room and all the way to the arena.

I suspected Tyreen was being deceitful. That her intentions this entire time were to put me in the Let’s Flay, like she had threatened to do.

How wrong I was.

So here I am. Completely out of my comfort zone and feeling sick to my stomach. Stood at the top of the COV food chain. Looking down on the arena and the gathering of fanatics. Tyreen is stood at my side, waving with amped up enthusiasm to her followers below. All eyes are on her. It never ceases to amaze me how unfazed she is. In fact, she revels in it. 

_I’m_ suffering with enough embarrassment for the both of us. I’d kill for a drink. Anything to take the edge off. 

Troy has been shooting me all sorts of dirty looks since I first stepped foot up here, on his territory. He’s making it quite clear that he doesn’t like me being here. What he likes even less is me being so close to his sister. 

This wasn’t my doing. I don’t _want_ to be here. 

I can only imagine how being seen in the company of the Calypsos is going to make me even more popular with the cultists, who already hate my guts. 

People are still pouring into the crowd. The main event isn’t starting yet. That means there’s just enough time for me to throw myself off the edge of the platform and save myself from this anxiety-fuelled nightmare. 

I reach for the sides of my hat, pulling it down over my ears. Tyreen notices this.

In my peripheral view I see her stop waving and turn her head to me. I unwillingly turn mine to her. Her eyes are wide and inquisitive, gazing up at me, her lips ever so slightly apart. 

And then, she smiles. Without offering any words of accompaniment.

This isn’t her typical grin.

It’s different.

There’s no arrogance. No spite. 

It’s... _calming_.

Her eyes are smiling too, locked on mine, glistening. 

Have they always been such a vivid shade of blue?

_My cheeks feel warm…_

“Hey Ty, we gonna get this started or what?” Troy yells from behind us.

“YES.” Tyreen snaps her head round to reply. “Yes…fine. Whatever. Let’s do it.” 

“Waiting on you to be ready.”

“I _AM_ ready.”

The tension between the Twins is evident. I’m not wholly convinced it’s because of me. 

Tyreen looks ahead, naturally slipping back into her God-Queen facade. Fake smiles and flashy confidence. The other smile is gone. Like it was a fluke. Like it had never happened. 

Troy activates his cambot and I hastily move out of view. Last thing I need is my mug plastered all over COV live streams. The bot circulates and focuses on Tyreen, projecting her zealous form as a giant hologram in the centre of the arena. 

“What is up brothers and sisters!?” She calls out to her fans, using her trademark opening statement. 

They respond with ear-splitting screeches of praise. 

Selective hearing allows me to tune out the rest of the God-Queen’s embellished drivel. The arena battleground is clear of living souls, only corpses from the warmup round remain. The largest of the contender’s doors begins to lift open; the creaking is an eerie reminder of the last time I was here. 

“Those filthy heretics!” 

A fraction of Tyreen’s speech breaks through to me as I stare at the slowly opening door.

“The Crimson Raiders!” 

_Crimson Raiders…_

Those two words hit me like a bolt of electricity.

_Shit._

Realistically, I knew this would happen at some point. The Raiders and the COV stand at opposite ends of the moral spectrum. That fact is not easing the suspense. This could be someone I knew years ago. Someone I spoke to or passed by in the street. Someone I have previously fought beside. Someone I once shared the same goal with. And I’m going to have to stand up here, nonchalantly, and watch them die. This situation couldn’t possibly get any more messed up, _could it?_

My question is answered, even before the contender’s door has fully opened. I don’t need to see them to know who is down there. I can hear them already. That booming voice and the sheer magnitude of profanity is a clear give away.

Dray.

The slow-moving door is flung upwards, tearing off the hinges and chain-link system as if they were made of paper. The impatient offender stomps into the pit. All 6ft8 of him. Built like a brick shit house and jacked up on anger. As soon as I see his face I turn away and clench my trembling fists. 

This isn’t happening. It _can’t_ be. 

_He can’t be here._

Tyreen looks down at my fists. Her lips are moving but I don’t hear her. What I can hear is Dray’s war-cry and the shrieking of psychos. The fighting has already begun. I refuse to look back into the arena.

I _refuse_ to watch my friend die.

Mentally, I’ve fallen into a state of panic. I don’t know how I’m containing this level of emotion. Memories are coming back to me in floods. The good, the bad and everything in between.

_Dray._

For years we grew up together. Laughed together. Drank together. Fought side by side. Survived all the hellish trials this planet had to offer. He’s my oldest friend. My first _real_ friend...

In an instant, my heart races with renewed ferocity. Fear and doubt are conquered by resolve. Focus. _Instinct._

To hell with keeping up this charade. 

_No one else will die because of me._

Tyreen is working to bring my attention back to her. Somehow, she sees through my calm exterior. She knows something’s wrong. It doesn’t matter. I swerve past her, break into a run and slide off the edge of the platform; before she, Troy or any of their personal guards have the chance to react. 

I effortlessly grapple my way down the structure, like a jabber climbing the colossal trees of Eden 6. When at a survivable falling distance from the ground, I plunge into the crowd. Now veering left and right, dodging my way through the flock until I’m at the rails. Up and over, too quickly for anyone to stop me. I land in the dirt of the arena and sprint at full speed towards Dray, who’s armed with only his fists; fervently shattering jaws and crushing skulls with a wicked smile on his face. His fists have never let him down before, but right now he’s being overwhelmed. 

I pull out my knife mid-sprint. Upon reaching my first, unaware target, I slice the blade into his flesh and between his ribs. A quick, clean and silent kill. The body falls away and I slash at the throat of another, oblivious psycho. He clutches desperately at the gaping neck wound; blood spurting through his fingers as he falls to his knees. I reach for my rifle, jamming the barrel into the mouth of the fanatic who’s become aware of my presence. Whatever he was about to scream is first muffled, then cancelled out by the sound of his brains splattering out the back of his skull. 

Dray freezes in motion when he spots me, as if he has seen a ghost, surrounded by dust and a red mist of gore. His hand is wrapped around the throat of an attacker, so tightly his eyes are bulging out. The fragile neck is snapped like a toothpick, as Dray’s stare pierces through me.

_That stare…_

Confusion? 

Astonishment?

Resentment?

_Rage?_

He doesn’t utter a word. Neither do I. This isn’t the time. 

My gritty entrance into the arena has pissed off _and_ delighted the fanatics; they’re exuberant that they’ll _finally_ get the chance to tear me limb from limb. The Calypso’s aren’t going to stop the battle. If they were, they’d have done so already. This fucked-up spectacle is going to boost the number of live viewers and donations exponentially. It would be too greater waste for them to intervene.

Dray and I are back to back, surrounded and outnumbered. What happens next depends entirely on our ability to work together, and on our combined will to survive. He shoots me a knowing glance over his shoulder, and the briefest of smirks. Five years apart…yet I know that look. 

It means things are going to play out just like the old days. 

It means he’ll opt for close combat, charge in and draw the attention of our foes, while I’ll hang back to cover his arse and flank.

It means there will not be a shred of fear or doubt between us. 

All these details further boost my spirit and solidify the mind-set that, against the odds, we _ARE_ going to make it out of here alive. 

\----

Time allegedly stands still during moments of intense emotion. Be it euphoria, anguish, terror or frenzied fury. This isn’t true. Time simply becomes irrelevant.

I don’t know how long we spent fighting off the waves of flailing psychos and trigger-happy fanatics. It felt like hours, though it’s more probable to have been minutes. 

Time _was_ irrelevant.

All that mattered was ending the lives of the maniacs who were trying to end ours. And now the battle is over, we are victorious. The crowd is going wild, regardless of the outcome. So long as there is death and dismemberment, their appetites are sated.

I scour the battlefield, my vision blurred and uneven, to ensure there are no more enemies. One final psycho pops up from behind me and takes me off guard. The fist that connects with my face is immediate, the force knocks me flat on my back. I’m too high on adrenaline to feel the pain. Dray rushes to my defence, delivering a punch of his own to my attacker. Ten times harder and with jaw shattering lethality. The crack of bone makes my own jaw ache. 

Dray offers me a hand; he’s expressionless, much like myself. As I’m pulled to my feet, I spot someone trotting across the arena towards us. Tyreen. Not her hologram, but in the flesh. All I can think is…

_How the hell did she get down here so quickly?_

“Oh. My. Gawwwd! THAT was _fucking incredible!_ ” She gushes with praise upon reaching me. “I was full on freaking out when you just leapt off the edge like that! And you _SERIOUSLY_ had me worried on like...multiple occasions during that fight but _WOW_ …you were amazing!!”

“Ty’s right. That was a freaking bloodbath.” Troy seems to materialize beside his sister. “Do you have _any idea_ how many hits we got from that fight? I mean holy shit. Wasn’t part of the plan for you to murder our followers but fuck…the viewer ratings and donations are through the roof thanks to you. Nice job nobody.” 

“Right? Right? SO much blood. I love it!” Tyreen concurs. “You really put those psychos to shame huh? I always knew there was a killer under that cool exterior of yours.”

My mouth hangs agape, like a gormless idiot, as I try to take in the Twin’s words of praise while also trying to process everything that just happened. The pounding in my head is making it difficult to focus on anything. 

_Is any of this actually real...?_

“And your hair!! I’ve NEVER seen you without that hat on.” 

Tyreen’s playful remark prompts me to reach up and touch my birds’ nest of hair.

_My hat._

Must have lost it when I took that punch. 

“ _Row-ley_ , I am SO proud of you.” Tyreen continues, desperate to earn some sort of response from me. “I’d totally hug you right now! If...if you weren’t covered in blood and entrails.”

 _Blood..._

That’s right. The blood of all the people I maimed and disemboweled. Their bodies are sprawled out around me, too numerous to count. I wipe some blood from my swollen lip, smear it across my fingertips, unable to tell if it’s mine or not. 

_This is something to be proud of...?_

The sight of Dray kneeling to pick up my hat is the only thing that evokes a reaction out of me. I disregard the Twins, turn my back on them and walk towards my old friend. Much to Tyreen’s displeasure I’m sure.

Dray and I are standing face to face. The first time in five years. I’m fearful of what he will say, even more fearful of what he might do. Whenever he can’t find the right words, it’s in his nature to resort to violence. 

Dray brushes the sand off my hat and hands it to me, like an offering of peace. Relieved, I gladly take it, openly ready to thank him. Although I don’t get the chance. Without warning, Dray draws back, swings and punches me square in the face; back down into the dirt which he hauled me from.

He pulled his punch, that much I can tell. It still stings like a bitch. I suppose it’s no less than I deserve, and certainly no less than I expected of him.

Tyreen is at my side within seconds.

“What the fuck is your deal?!” She blares at Dray, preparing to eviscerate him where he stands.

This day has gone from bad, to worse, to fucking diabolical; and so far, I’ve been powerless to stop it. Too much blood has been spilled already. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Tyreen destroy all my efforts to keep Dray alive. 

“Don’t.” I say firmly, grabbing hold of Tyreen’s boot in an attempt to dissuade. 

Not sure this is the best course of action to take. I can tell that she’s seething. She doesn’t pay me any notice, but she is hesitating. Which means, at the very least, she’s heard me. 

“Interesting way to thank someone who just saved your heretic-ass.” Troy strolls over, with no indication of concern for me. “Thought you Raiders were supposed to be the _good guys_. Honor, virtue and all that shit.” 

“Go fuck yourself. He didn’t save my ass, and I didn’t ask for his help.” Dray snarls, puffing out his chest. “I don’t need the help of a deserter.” 

“Deserter? Pfft think you hit your head a little too hard back there, dumbass. What the fuck are you talking about?” Tyreen gives a derisive laugh. 

She’s relaxed a little, but not enough for me to believe she won’t act with intent to kill.

“ _THAT_ wiry little shit deserted the Raiders.” Dray points at me to strengthen his accusation.

“What? What are you on? He’s not a Crimson Raider.”

Tyreen’s grin has already dropped by the time she turns to me. My guilt-ridden expression gives her pause for thought; she’s unsure. And I have nothing to say to defend myself, due to the shame. 

“Yeah, that’s right you bitch. He IS a Crimson Raider. Or he _was_ until he deserted us. _TWICE_.” Dray growls bitterly. 

The truth of his words hurt much more than the punch did.

“Lying isn’t going to save you.” Tyreen states decidedly, not buying his claim. “I’m still going to kill you. I’ll drain every last drop of your life until you’re nothing more than an empty husk.” 

The severity of Tyreen’s tone would send chills down the spine of even the most hardened of criminals. But Dray lets out a heavy chuckle.

“HA! How’s about you drain my bollocks, bitch!”

Tyreen curls her upper lip in disgust while Troy hunches over in a failed attempt to conceal his own laughter. 

Dray hasn’t changed one bit. Still lacking the awareness of his own mortality, and quick to open his big mouth before assessing the gravity of the situation. He has no idea of the danger he’s in. I have to intervene. 

“Dray…shut up.” I groan as I get to my feet. 

He’s surprised to hear me say that.

 _I’m_ surprised to hear me say that.

“Yeah Dray, _shut up_.” Tyreen repeats, with a childlike lilt in her voice. 

“Fuck off you psychotic bitch.” Dray is quick to retaliate. 

I move to stand between the two of them, before Tyreen really does kill him. 

“Don’t kill him.” I say, blocking her path. “He’s-”

I feel a lump in my throat as I try to get the words out.

_Damn it…_

Why is this so difficult to say?

“He’s…he’s my friend…my brother.” 

The Twins glance at one another. 

“He’s your friend?” Troy sneers. 

“Naww well isn’t that sweet.” Tyreen mocks lightly. “Are you begging me now? Going to get down on your knees for your God-Queen?” 

“I’m not begging you, Tyreen.” I state, my usage of her name causing her to falter. “I’m asking you.”


	13. Reconcile

“Bought you some water.” 

I present a bottle of clean water, filled to the brim, to the colossus inside the iron enclosure. 

This iron cage sits on the outskirts of the COV stronghold. Approximately 3m by 3m, partially buried in sand, weather beaten and rusted. A blood-stained relic that previously served no real purpose other than gruesome decoration.

I made these observations, mere moments ago, whilst walking apprehensively towards it. My objective was reaching the man locked inside who was, _and still is_ , pacing back and forth like a caged lion. 

Dray ceases the patrol of his enclosure, stopping directly in front of me and my outstretched hand.

_Despite the awkward circumstances...I am happy to see him._

He scowls in repulse at my gift of hydration. 

_The feeling clearly isn’t mutual._

Thick beads of sweat pour from his forehead. His eyes are dry and bloodshot. It's not at all surprising considering there is no shade from the sun in his current residence. He gives his blonde mane a few rough scratches before decidedly reaching for the water he so obviously needs. Dray snatches it from my hand, chugs the contents and crushes the empty bottle in a clenched fist. 

I don’t expect to be thanked. 

The glare that follows is set in an odd silence, though I know there is a rant brewing. I can tell by the amount of air being sucked in through his flailed nostrils. 

He’s reluctantly waiting for me to speak.

So am I.

I’m at a complete loss for words; not to suggest that I’m at all skilled with words in the first place. You’d think that half a decade of not seeing someone would leave you with plenty to say.

An explanatory reason for why I _abandoned_ everyone I knew?

A heartfelt apology for _disappearing_ without so much as a goodbye?

I owe him that much.

But instead of all logic, decency and basic social etiquette, I finally decide on asking a question-

“How is everyone?” 

The infuriated look that Dray gives makes me instantly regret this decision. I know full well that I have absolutely no right to ask such a thing. I’m grateful for the iron barrier between us.

“ _You wanna know how the raiders are?_ ” Dray asks with bitter rage bubbling beneath the surface. 

I brace myself. 

“Well shit, Rowley. Where to begin?!” 

_Here we go._

“After you _deserted_ us, we still had the Hyperion threat to deal with. We killed that Handsome bastard, _without_ your help might I add, then Hyperion pretty much fucked off of Pandora…Thought we’d caught a break. Things seemed to be looking up. The Raiders had the vault key again, so our plan was to leave Pandora to hunt down other Vaults. But that didn’t fucking happen.”

“So, what happened?” I ask, though I’m not sensing a happy ending to this story. 

Dray draws in a deep, snarling breath.

“Long story short; we got our asses kicked out of Sanctuary and then it got blown to high hell by some fucking maniac from Dahl. We lost the vault key, our home and our fucking dignity all at once. It’s been shit-show after shit-show ever since.” 

He stops talking, only to make sure I’m properly riding the guilt trip he’s taking me on.

“Lilith’s doing all she can to keep what’s left of the Raiders together. Most of them scattered over the years. There sure as hell ain’t many of us left now.”

“That’s uh… a lot to take in.” I say ruefully.

“Yeah it is, ain’t it? Though you wouldn’t have to take it all in at once if you’d had actually BEEN there with us at the time.”

“What about Roland?” I ask quickly, a knee jerk reaction to pacify my growing shame. “You haven’t mentioned-”

“Roland’s dead.” Dray snaps. “Handsome Jack killed him.” 

Hearing this causes me a sharp pang of guilt. 

I remember meeting Roland when he and the others arrived at New Haven. I was in complete awe. Coming face to face with not one vault hunter, but four. I remember him asking me for directions to ‘whoever was in charge here’. He was polite and unusually patient towards _me_. A boy who, at the time, had always been a little distant.

Not much has changed. Inside I’m still that same boy, keeping reality at a distance and running from the truth, whilst maintaining a sense of apathy. 

But now Roland is simply another name on the list of people I’ve known who’ve been killed. I cannot help but feel this is my fault. Not directly but…if I’d have been there, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

“How…did he die?” I ask with caution.

But caution be damned, I’ve crossed the line.

In retaliation Dray reaches through the bars for my throat, missing by an inch. His hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked material, manages to grab hold of the scruff of my shirt.

“You don’t GET to ask that.” He tugs my entire body like a ragdoll against the iron bars that separate us. “Not after five fucking years of not giving a damn!”

His arm feels like it’s made of solid stone. Unyielding to my attempts at freeing myself from his grasp.

“What the fuck happened to you Rowley? Where the fuck did you go? And why?!” He fires questions, shaking me violently as he does so. 

“I don’t-”

“You left us. TWICE. The first time you left I…You know I supported you leaving to find Pierce! But why the fuck did you leave again?!”

“I don’t know!”

“You god damn well better know!” He jerks me forward, slamming me into the metal bars again, with much more force this time. “And why the fuck are you here? With these damned cultists! Are you one of them?!”

“No!”

Dray throws me to the ground to discard of me, letting out a roar of frustration. He launches a barrage of punches, denting the iron that imprisons him. I allow him to express himself, not daring to make eye contact again until he’s finished blowing off steam. I can tell it’s long overdue. He has every right to be mad at me. I honestly believe if nothing was separating us, he would kill me in a blind rage. 

“Everyone thought you were dead Rowley! _EVERYONE! Everyone_ …but me.” Dray growls through gritted teeth. “They kept telling me to let it go, you weren’t coming back. But I never lost hope that one day you’d just waltz on in. That same damn look on your face as always. Like you’d never been gone at all and we were all making a fuss over nothing.” 

His speech halts, watching with inflamed eyes as I stand up and brush the sand from my clothes. If he were out here with me, he’d knock me right back down again for sure. 

“But you didn’t. You never came back. And just when I’m ready to let go, here you bloody well are. Cosying up to the enemy.” 

“I’m not cosying up.”

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m a captive here, Dray.” I say, finding the courage to look him in the eye again.

“A captive.” He scoffs. “Well I don’t see you in chains there, _brother_.”

The last word he spits at me like venom. 

“It’s the truth. I’ve been living in the wastes this entire time. The COV caught me about 3 months ago.” I declare, in a feeble attempt to justify myself.

“Then why are you still here? Do you have any fucking idea what these COV bastards are doing to the Crimson Raiders? To YOUR family?”

“The Raiders aren’t my family anymore.”

“And these fucked up cultists are?!”

“No! No…I’ve been planning to escape…Gaining trust.”

“What, so you’re going to abandon these fuckers too?” 

In a sense, yes. That was my plan. I had gained trust, to the extent that the Calypso’s seemed confident I wasn’t going to try to flee. But having Dray turn up out of the blue has greatly complicated things for me. I was forced, with the threat of death, to explain myself to the twins and convince them that I was no longer affiliated with the Crimson Raiders. Tyreen was easy to convince, in spite of her foul temper. Whether I like it or not she seems to have developed a soft spot for me, which is extremely beneficial in a cult such as this one. Troy had his doubts, claiming that I was a spy for the Raiders but ultimately I managed to sway him. _I think_. He’s much more reserved with his emotions and doesn’t seem to let out his true feelings like his sister does. I’m almost certain he’s fond of me, he simply refuses to show it. That reminds me of myself, a little more than I’m comfortable with. 

“You weren’t ever going to come back to the Raiders, were you?” Dray says hopelessly. 

“No…” I admit, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Dray sighs, his anger is spent.

“Pierce was dead. I couldn’t stand it.” I confess, forcing down the urge to run from this conversation. “The way everyone looked at me…when I was brought back to Sanctuary. I _hated_ it. I hated _them_. I couldn’t tell if I saw pity or disdain in their eyes.”

“So you ran away, rather than having to face a harsh truth?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.” 

“How can _anyone_ understand when you won’t open up and admit how you feel?! We were your family for fuck sake! Think about everything we’ve been through Rowley. If you’d have told us how you felt, we’d have faced it with you. _Together_. That’s what family do.”

Dray is trying desperately to reach me with his words. I want to meet him halfway by telling him how I felt back then. And how I feel right now. 

I want to explain the guilt I felt over Pierce’s death. The crushing grief of losing her. The denial that I would never see her again.

I want to admit how detached I felt from everyone. How hollow their faces seemed when I returned. How all the company in the world could not console me or stop me from feeling lonely. 

_I want to reconcile with my old friend._

But even now, after all this time, I can’t. Everything I feel is locked inside, and I have no knowledge of how to let it free. 

“Is Erin alright?” I try to divert the conversation away from me. 

“Erin’s doing just fine.” Dray nods assuredly, though I can tell he’s annoyed at me for changing the subject. “She cried for weeks though. Months. Hell, she still cries now and it’s been five fucking years since you up and disappeared. The two of us went searching for you, too many times to count. Roland even sent out search parties, WHILE we were busy fighting off Hyperion forces. You have no idea what we went through.” 

“I’d apologise if it would-”

“You know better. A simple sorry ain’t going to cut it Rowley. To say you’ve severely pissed me off would be the understatement of the fucking century.” 

I lower my head and nod in agreement. 

“In the end it was just me and Erin who still went out looking for you. Maya too, before she left for Athenas.” 

_Maya?_

This stuns me momentarily. 

“M...Maya…went looking…for me?” My stuttering comes with visible disbelief. 

“Don’t look so bloody surprised. She liked you, so what the hell do you expect?”

“That’s…ridiculous.” My throat runs dry. “Maya’s a good person. Kind. Gentle...She was only being friendly.”

Dray shakes his head and rolls his eyes. 

“You know Rowley, for someone so smart and observant, you really are a fucking idiot when it comes to basic human emotion. She _liked_ you. And when you did your disappearing act, she was just as upset as the rest of us. If not more.”

“If that’s true then-” 

“It IS the fucking truth.” Dray asserts himself. “She missed you, damn it, and I’ll bet she still misses you now.”

Feigning indifference, I brush him off and turn away.

“Even before you left the Raiders, you were like this. Stubborn arsehole.” Dray yells to regain my attention.

“Like what?” I grumble.

“Every time someone gets close to you, you pull away. You do realise that, right? One day you’re going to piss off the wrong person doing that shit. And it’s going to get you killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a long delay between chapter uploads. 2020 has been a pretty shitty year.  
> Many thanks to anyone still reading! :)


	14. Memory: Maya

The length of time I was held by Hyperion is unknown to me. Blended days and nights of agonizing torture and freakish experiments; at the expense of my mortal body which refused to expire. 

Human experimentation should have been illegal. _It was._ But all corporations had their dirty secrets. Undisclosed methods of advancing their technology. Hyperion was no different. This was science without ethics.

_First the numbness._

_Then came the prickly sensations along the surface of my skin._

_The burning and breathlessness._

_The agony: my flesh sliced open with surgical blades and jabbed with needles._

_The warmness of blood trickling from open wounds._

_The reoccurring taste of copper in my mouth._

I learned in short order, that no matter how much I screamed, the white coats wouldn’t stop. I felt like a fragile and frightened child; reliving horrors of my youth I’d long suppressed. 

As a child I had been lucky to escape from a lifetime of playing the role of lab rat. A freak accident had caused the science vessel I was kept on to crash land on Pandora. Fate led Helena Pierce to be my salvation. She would not be saving me this time.

Pain developed into a frequent friend. Eventually I welcomed it, as it became the only thing to assure me that I was still alive. 

\----

Security alarms sounded through the Hyperion complex and I awoke from a drugged-up coma. Still heavily doped on whatever experimental medication my torturers had pumped into my system earlier. I was groggy, my vision was hazy and I was too weak to lift my head, let alone stand. So I lay still, my cheek pressed hard against the cold metal floor, and I listened. The blaring alarms were rhythmical, amongst them I could hear the recognizable sound of gun shots. 

After a short while, the silhouette of a person stepped into my view. I presumed it to be one of the white coats, there to deliver my daily dose of torment. The visitor stepped up to my cell and observed me, before slowly kneeling. I watched their lips move. The sound that followed was gentle and soothing. Through my weary eyes, I could have sworn it was Pierce, coming to rescue me from confinement just like before. 

“Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to get you out of here.” The woman assured, reaching out her hand to me. 

Glowing blue markings on the woman’s arm stood out distinctly in such a grim place. 

_This wasn’t Pierce._

I focused on the aura emanating from the woman. It was alien yet permitted me to feel somewhat at ease. 

_She was a siren._

It must have been a dream.

_It wasn’t Lilith._

\----

The blue haired woman with a gentle voice and kindly eyes hadn’t been a pain-induced delusion. She was in fact real, and she was indeed a siren. Her name was Maya.

Maya and her comrades had assaulted the Wildlife Exploitation Preserve for intel. They were the new team of Vault Hunters, taking orders from Roland and Lilith who were still taking refuge in Sanctuary with the rest of the Raiders. During their assault on the Hyperion base, they had freed me and subsequently took me to safety.

After the initial commotion of arriving back at Sanctuary, I desperately sought solitude. People swarmed around me like hungry spiderants, firing questions that I neither wanted to answer nor think about. Not even the offer of drinks at Moxxi’s bar with my best friend could calm the anguish that plagued my soul. I should have been happy to be back amongst my friends; but I was restless. This place didn’t feel like home and no one seemed familiar anymore.

Pierce wasn’t here, and she never would be. That was a truth I could not accept.

\----

Despite the heat of the day, Pandoran nights were notoriously cold. I was crazy enough to be sitting on the rooftops in the middle of the night. The unnatural chill of the night air was a minor issue on Pandora’s long checklist of _‘reasons not to live here’_. I wrapped my arms around myself, going over the logic of why I was up there in the first place. It wasn’t for physical comfort; it was for peace of mind. 

A mere two weeks back at Sanctuary; I was already sick of people and their relentless poking and prodding. My closest friends, Dray and Erin, had the best intentions I’m sure. What they may have thought was showing concern, to me felt like a nuisance. I _needed_ to get away from everyone, or otherwise drown in their _so-called_ compassion and advice. Pity was the last thing I needed.

 _I wanted to be left alone._

But at the same time, I felt loneliness. 

Disconnected yet left yearning. 

I was conflicted and confused by these new emotions. And until I could fathom them out, I had decided I would remain alone. 

Being up on the rooftops, was truly a sanctuary within Sanctuary. Nobody bothered me up here. No one except-

“Thought I might find you up here.” 

_Her._

“Can I join you?” Maya called out from behind me. 

I listened to her footsteps approach and come to a halt inches behind where I was sat.

I gave the smallest of head gestures.

Maya planted herself beside me, closer than I’d have liked. I resisted the urge to shuffle away. I didn’t want to offend her. 

“Having trouble sleeping again?” She asked; her head turned towards me.

I didn’t reply.

She didn’t take offense.

“It sure is cold out here at night, huh?” I heard the breath leave her lips, as she brought her knees up to her chest in an embrace. “But I can see why you like it up here. That’s quite the view.”

Maya checked on me regularly. I never quite understood why. Perhaps she felt it was her responsibility as my rescuer. Much like when someone rescues an injured animal and nurses it back to health. Or perhaps it was simply because she was a genuinely kind woman.

I don’t know how she found the time, not with how busy she was risking her life for the people of Sanctuary. Playing her part, by engaging the enemy and doing all sorts of death-defying jobs for Roland, Lilith or whoever else asked. The entire planet was in a state of turmoil. The weak, who couldn’t fight for themselves, needed the strong to fight for them. Now more than ever. 

I should have been doing the same as Maya and the other Raiders. Helping people who were in need. _I knew I should._ I had always used to. 

At that point in time, it was as though I didn’t care for helping others. A chunk of me was missing, a chunk big enough to affect everything else important in my life. 

“You like watching the stars.” Maya said, looking towards the starlit horizon, where my eyes were focused. “I’ve noticed you do that a lot.”

I shrugged.

“You did the exact same thing after we rescued you from Hyperion. While we were driving you back to Sanctuary, you didn’t say a single word. You just kept looking up at the stars.” 

“I never thought I’d see them again.” I said in low tone. 

“That wasn’t the first time you were locked up like that, was it?” Maya inquired. 

She wasn’t being patronizing. There was sympathy in her voice. She was trying to get me to open up. No easy task.

“When I was a child, I was kept in a lab.” I said, as if it didn’t bother me. “Dray told you?”

“Yeah, he did.” 

“Seems my life is the hot topic of discussion for everyone lately.” I exhaled.

“That’s because everyone is worried about you Rowley. Me included. Why do you think I keep coming up here to see you every night? It certainly isn’t for my own comfort.” She said humorously, rubbing her arms to prevent the cold. “After everything you’ve been through, I’d have thought you’d want the company of your friends.”

“I’m not so sure I have any friends left here.”

“That’s not true. There are people here who care about you.” Maya reassured me. 

“But I don’t care about them.” I admitted. “I can’t bring myself to care about anything anymore.” 

“That’s to be expected. You’ve suffered the loss of a loved one. Grief makes us experience so many unexpected emotions.” Maya said wisely, studying my face for a reaction. 

She let the silence settle. I felt a stinging sensation from behind my eyes. 

“I am sorry, about what happened to your mother. I’m aware that she wasn’t your birth mother but...well, there’s more to family than blood.” Maya said as she repositioned herself closer to me. “I know it’s difficult for you, but it really does help to talk about the things that are bothering us. Especially when we are experiencing grief. Holding onto that pain, without letting it out, only damages us further.”

I tried to remain stoic, but her empathy pierced the barriers I’d put up so easily. She could see the suffering I hid.

“I don’t know how…” 

Saying that aloud made me feel ashamed, and weak. But Maya smiled. She was satisfied.

“Admitting that you don’t know how to open up, is a good start.”

Maya pried constantly; she was insistent on asking questions and getting to know me better. But unlike everyone else, with her it didn’t feel invasive. She had a certain calming effect about her. I couldn’t have been the only person who felt this way. There was a serenity in her presence. It offered harmony and security, without the need to be on edge all the time. 

It truly terrified me to feel that way.

“I blame myself for her death.” I confessed shakily, with a quick glance in Maya’s direction.

She waited to see if I had more to say.

I didn’t. 

I had said too much already.

“It’s perfectly normal to feel guilt after losing someone. But that doesn’t mean it _was_ your fault. _It wasn’t._ ” Maya said slowly, allowing me to fully absorb her words. “It may be hard to believe at the moment, but everything that you’re feeling will pass in time. It won’t last forever. With support from your friends, and from me, you’ll heal. I promise.” 

Another thing that was hard for me to believe was the fact that Maya was only 5 years older than me. She was wise beyond her years, full of worldly knowledge and good advice. 

“One other thing I will say...” She indicated towards Elpis with her finger. “That moon would look a whole lot better without that hideous Hyperion base blighting its surface.” 

It seemed a random thing for her to say, but the mood suddenly felt a hell of a lot lighter. I appreciated her changing the subject so abruptly. In doing so, she removed the pressure I was under to be forthright about my emotions. She knew just what to do to make me feel comfortable. 

“At least the stars are still beautiful.” I said, feeling obliged to make an effort. 

“Oh absolutely. It’s funny though. So many planets in our Galaxy, and the stars look just as beautiful from any one of them.”

“Right…You’re not from Pandora.” I remarked, settling into our new conversation.

Now I _wanted_ it to continue. 

“That’s right. I grew up on Athenas. The scenery there is…a little different from here on Pandora.”

“Better than sand and rocks you mean?” I said dryly.

Maya chuckled.

“Sand and rocks are difficult to contend with but…yes. Athenas has much more to offer in terms of visual aesthetics. It’s breath-taking actually.” 

“ _Breath-taking_ in a good way? I can’t imagine. A lot of things can take your breath away on Pandora. Most of them involve running for your life.”

Maya shook her head in playful disapproval of my attempt at humour. 

“It’s not something so easily explained. You really have to see it with your own eyes to appreciate the beauty.” She sighed longingly at the memory of her home. 

There was only one beauty I could appreciate at that moment, and that was hers. The inner and outer. It must have been the _blue_ ; a colour shared by her eyes, hair and siren markings. My eyes had always been inexplicably drawn to that colour.

“Oh you’d love it there Rowley. There’re no bandits. No violence. During the day there’s a pleasant haze from the mist that’s always present, and the sound of birdsong in the air. At night the air is cool but not cold, and the sky is always clear enough to see the stars and the two moons.” Maya explained dreamily. “It’s an isolated planet, but it’s a place of tranquillity. I really think you’d be able to find peace there.” 

_A secluded planet, without hardship or danger..._

“That does sound beautiful.” I nodded, approving the thought of the world she had described.

My heart raced as I suddenly felt her hand on top of mine.

“When all this is over, and assuming we’re both still alive, I’ll take you there.” Maya said decidedly. 

I was amazed that I prevented myself from running a mile, or freezing in terror at the touch of her hand. It was abnormal for me accept physical contact. I had always had an irrational fear of being touched.

Though on a night as cold as that one, the warmth of her touch was welcome.


End file.
